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BY ROSE PORTER. 


SUMMER DRIFT-WOOD for the Winter Fire. i6mo, cloth. $1.00. 

THE WINTER FIRE. A Sequel to u Summer Drift-wood.” i6mo, 
cloth, $1.25. 

FOUNDATIONS; or, Castles in the Air. i6mo, cloth, $1.00. 

UPLANDS AND LOWLANDS; or, Three Chapters in a Life. i6mo, 
cloth. $1.25. 

THE YEARS THAT ARE TOLD. i6mo. cloth. $1.25. 

A SONG AND A SIGH. i6mo, cloth. $1.25. 

IN THE MIST. i6mo, cloth. &i.*5. 


SENT BY MAIL, PREPAID, ON RECEIPT OF PRICE, BY 

ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH & COMPANY, 

900 Broadway , Cor. 20 th St. y New York. 




IN THE MIST. 


By ROSE PORTER, 


AUTHOR OF “SUMMER DRIFTWOOD,’’ ETC. 



NEW YORK : 

ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH & COMPANY, 

900 BROADWAY, COR. 20th ST. 

IT 


\ 






COPYRIGHT, 1879, BY 

Anson D. F. Randolph & Company. 


NEW YORK 

EDWARD O. JENKINS, PRINTER, 

20 North William St. 


ROBERT RUTTER, BINDER, 

84 Beekman St. 


“ Fog-wreaths of doubt in blinding eddies drifted \ 
Whirlwinds of fancy , countergusts of thought , 
Shadowless shadows where warm lives were sought, 
Numb feet, that feel not their own tread, uplifted 
On clouds of formless wonder, lightning-rifted / 

What marvel that the whole world’s life should seem 
To helpless intellect, a Brahma-dream, 

From which the real and restful is out-sifted! 

Through the dim storm a white peace-bearing Dove 
Gleams, and the mist rolls back, the shadows flee , 

The dream is past. A clear calm sky above. 

Firm rock beneath ; a royal-scrolled tree. 

And One, thorn-diademed, the King of Love , 

The Son of God' who gave Himself for me.” 



PRELUDE. 






















































































































. 




































I. 


“ I opened the door of my heart. And behold, 

There was music within, and a song. 

But while I was hearkening, lo, blackness without, 
thick and strong, 

Came up and came over, and all that sweet 
fluting was drowned, 

I could hear it no more ! ” 

N ILES ENDICOTT could not explain to 
himself how it all happened, much less 
to another. But the fact was this, that he, 
Doctor Niles Endicott, the days of whose life 
had slipped beyond the clinging touch of 
late-lirlgering youth, that will not let go of 
the first three decades of a man’s years.— He, 
— Niles Endicott, who had for so long been 
content in his bachelor home, with thrifty 
Mrs. Blinn for housekeeper, suddenly found 
the once cheerful rooms cheerless ; the once 
coveted seclusion loneliness; the aforetime 
satisfying companionship of books and study 

unsatisfying ; and, all because of a voice that 

( 7 ) 


8 


IN THE MIST. 


was like music to him, a smile, that was like 
a sunbeam. 

Yet, how could he win that voice to sing in 
his home, that smile to beam brightness and 
joy there? 

Doctor Endicott, though he was a man 
wont to well consider the why and how of his 
desires, and their accomplishment, did not 
long ponder that question. 

No, he straightway found the answer, as 
thousands have done before him, — for, — some- 
how, love teaches what knowledge seeks in 
vain. 

Thus only a brief six months after Nanette 
Jay’s arrival in G., in the parish church, the 
marriage service was read ; the sacred promise 
to love and cherish uttered in Niles Endi- 
cott’s clear ringing tones; the ecjio-promise 
murmured in Nanette’s low, trembling, bird- 
like voice, — and, — a minute later, they went 
out, man and wife; the minister had said, 
“ What God hath joined together, let not 
man put asunder.” 


IN THE MIST. 


9 


II. 

Then began for Niles Endicott a life beau- 
tiful as a dream, but alas ! as brief. 

Nanette was but a young thing, a mere 
child in comparison with that middle-aged 
man, who yet held her lightest word, her 
slightest deed in honor. 

There was nothing too fair, too good for 
his heart to liken her to ; she was as a flower to 
him, a song-bird, a sunbeam, and, that she 
should of her own free will, sing, blossom, and 
shine for him, was a never-ceasing wonder to 
Doctor Endicott. 

Perhaps, — we can not tell, — if that one 
golden unshadowed year of wedded joy had 
widened into a long stretch of years, marked 
as years must be by the cares and sorrows of 
life, — perhaps, Niles Endicott might have 
rudely wakened from his dream to find this 
child-wife of his, this young creature of the 
morning, unfit for the wear and tear of mid- 


10 


IN THE MIST. 


day. Be this as it may, he was never tried, 
for as birds cease their songs when morning 
melts into noon ; as flowers go to sleep at set 
of sun ; as sunbeams are dimmed by the up- 
rising mists of earth, so their first year of life 
together had scarce bridged into a second, 
when there came a day, when Doctor Endi- 
cott ; though he loved her so, though she was 
as dear to him as his life, stood by Nanette’s 
side powerless to stay the wild fever throb- 
bing through her veins ; powerless to hinder 
the swift approach of that call, to which no 
mortal man or woman, try they ever so hard, 
can say, Nay. 


III. 

It was all over by nightfhll ; strangers 
and friends passing Doctor Endicott’s door 
knew the sad truth, that in that dwelling 
there had been that day, the One, who never 
goes away alone ! 

But, neither stranger or friend knew the 


IN THE MIST. 


II 


grief of the man who sat with bowed head 
through the silent hours of the night by Nan- 
ette’s still form, — striving, — so vainly striv- 
ing, to follow her flight into that unknown 
land from whose silence his cries could win no 
answer, whose mystery his thoughts could not 
solve. 

“ Strange is it not ? that of the myriads who 
Before us pass the door of Darkness through. 
Not one returns, to tell us of the Road, 

Which to discover we must travel too/' 

Even Mrs. Blinn, who had been used to the 
Doctor’s ways for years, never half guessed 
how the light of life went out for him the 
day Nanette died, — how for him, the joy ot 

“ Its story was all read, 

And the giver had turned the last page.” 


IV. 

There was another watch kept in Doc- 
tor Endicott’s home that night. — For, — 


12 


IN THE MIST. 


as one life, the mother’s had passed from 
earth to heaven, there had come from heaven 
to earth, tl\e child’s. 

Yes, that day, — the saddest day of all the 
days of Niles Endicott’s life, vas the birth- 
day of his daughter Elizabeth. 


IN THE MIST 


i. 

“OO you have decided, Doctor Endicott, 
^ that the child is to be called Elizabeth. 
A grave name, I must say, for the wee lassie, 
my little lady-bird.” 

And the expression of good-natured Mrs. 
Blinn’s countenance, as nearly approached a 
frown as was possible, while across Doctor 
Endicott’s face played the hint of a smile, as 
he replied: “Yes, quite decided, Mrs. Blinn ; 
why do you object to the name Elizabeth, 
it certainly admits of variations enough, to 
suit well-nigh every ideal your heart may 
crave to have personated by the name of the 
little maiden.” 

And having thus settled the matter, Doctor 

(13) 


IN THE MIST. 


14 

Endicott resumed the reading of the morning 
paper. 

But Mrs. Blinn could not so easily leave 
the question ; in fact, if ever she felt inclined 
to be vexed with the Doctor, it was then, for 
the naming of the child had become a sensi- 
tive subject to her. 

Then, too, all the love and poetry; the 
tender homely pathos of Mrs. Blinn’s heart, 
had centered around this motherless child, 
and no name could have been too beautiful, 
too high-sounding, to have pleased the 
seemingly commonplace old housekeeper, 
whose outward appearance gave no clue 
to her poem-like aspirations for the child’s 
future. 

Even when she was busy with the daily 
household duties, the ever-recurring sweeping 
and dusting, she was dreaming day-dreams of 
Elizabeth ; dreams as beautiful and number- 
less as the opening flower-buds of spring. 

And now, — to have her desire for a name 
like melody for sound ; a picture for associ- 
ation ; a poem for song, all set aside by Doc- 


IN THE MIST. 15 

tor Endicott’s irrevocable decision : “ The 
name is Elizabeth.” 

. “ What did he mean,” the old woman 
queried, “ by saying, 1 it admitted of varia- 
tions ’? Did he suppose she would let the 
little blossom be called, Lib, Libby, or Liz ? ” 

And, as was very apt to be the case with 
Mrs. Blinn in times of perplexity, no sooner 
had she accomplished her morning tasks, 
than she started forth to consult Mrs. Grant, 
— the minister’s wife, — as to what Doctor En- 
dicott’s words meant. 

In reply to Mrs. Blinn’s question : 

“ By what now might one shorten, and 
lighten the name Elizabeth?” Mrs. Grant 
had suggested a bewildering list of titles, 
starting with Bess and Bessie, ending with 
Lizette and Lizzie, and interluded by Lillie 
and Lisbeth. 

The good lady, at the same time, throwing 
in by way of parenthesis, her idea of the 
character the different appellations seemed to 
portray. 

And strange to say, Mrs. Blinn, though the 


l6 IN THE MIST. 

child was scarce more than a twelvemonth 
old, could not fail to see in her some sim- 
ilarity to each of Mrs. Grant’s definitions, till 
verily she felt half frightened, as to what the 
little Elizabeth would be in girl and woman- 
hood, if in babyhood she were so complex a 
creature. 

Indeed, Mrs. Blinn went home, saying to 
herself, “ Who ever would have thought there 
was so much in a name ! ” — words she re- 
peated many and many a time afterward. 

And, just because of that much, spite her 
sense of dissatisfaction with Doctor Endi- 
cott’s decision, as she pondered it, she came 
to feel a certain importance in it, — she fell, 
too, as the child’s varying moods suggested, 
into the way of using now one, and then 
another of the many titles ; that according to 
Mrs. Grant, fringed the name Elizabeth, as 
rose leaves fringe the heart of the rose, — 
wondering, too, in an undefined way, what 
gave a flower its name, — its heart, — or its 
leaves ? 

In the case of Elizabeth, there was some- 


IN THE MIST. 


1 7 


thing very appropriate in all this, for she was 
verily, a many-sided little creature, of moods 
as complex, and changes of temper as sud- 
den, as April sunshine and shower. 

And, when childhood glided into maiden- 
hood, it was still the same with her ; for one 
hour, she was a queen Bess, holding imperious 
queendom over all who came within her sway. 
The next, the grave Elizabeth, striving in 
vain to solve “ the mystery of the heart that 
beats so wild, so deep in us,” .to know whence 
we come, and where we go. 

And then again, she seemed a very lily-bell 
among maidens, “ so innocent-arch, so cun- 
ning-simple,” were her winsome ways, or 
straightway, she was laughing Beth, or co- 
quettish Lisette, of whom none could tell 

“ Whether smile or frown be fleetest, 

Whether smile or frown be sweetest.” 

But oftenest, she was just Lisbeth, — sweet 
Lisbeth, whom 

“ None looked upon but he straightway thought 
Of all the greenest depths of country cheer, 


2 


i8 


IN THE MIST. 


And into each one’s heart was freshly brought 
What was to him the sweetest time of year. 
So was her every look and motion fraught 
With out-of-door delights and forest lere ; 
Not the first violet on a woodland lea 
Seemed a more visible gift of spring than she." 


II. 


T HE early life of the little Elizabeth was 
like the flowers, as free and unfettered. 
In truth, to Doctor Endicott she was a 
flower, his Lily-bell he called her, his 

“ Lily-bud, not opened quite, 

That hourly grew more pure and white.” 

Called her, with a tenderness in his tone, a 
smile on his grave face, that made the words 
ever after dear to Elizabeth, with the sweet 
echo-charm of a sound that holds thoughts 
pf childhood. 

Her first memory-pictures were all simple, 
yet they were all touched with the wonders 
of the world ! 

Spring, coming after winter, sunshine after 
rain, — wonders that have pftzzled many a 
wiser head than hers. — For, who can explain 
the mystery, — “ Except a corn of wheat fall 

(19) 


20 


IN THE MIST. 


into the ground and die, it abideth alone ; but 
if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit.” 

Who tan explain it ? 

Doctor Endicott was wont to be a silent 
man among men, but when with the child he 
had words many and eloquent, and thus, he 
educated her in the broad “charity which 
thinketh no evil,” — at least, as much as one 
can educate another, in that charity, which 
only the Christ-like heart can truly know. 

Elizabeth’s father educated her, too, in the 
lore of Nature, as unconsciously as a flower 
opens to the sunshine ; and from babyhood 
her young heart thrilled with love and tender- 
ness for the song-birds, and the flowers, and 
the outer world of beauty. 

She had only known kindness, thus she was 
ignorant of fear. — The wildest wind among 
the tree-tops was a song to her, — storm-clouds 
only meant rain, to make the flowers grow, 
and when the storm-banks were the heaviest, 
she knew if but*one rift broke them, the sun- 
set-glory would be all the brighter for their 
darkness, — and, — in her childhood she never 


IN THE MIST. 


21 


guessed it was all a parable, — a sign in the 
sky, — but afterward she knew. 

She loved the still moonlight too, — loved 
to run far into the shadows cast by the great 
trees down by the garden gate, and then out 
again with a song of joy, — out into the un- 
shadowed moonshine, — and she never guessed 
that too was a parable ! 

But best of all, Lisbeth loved the murmur ' 
of the waves, as they crept up and on the 
sandy beach of the low-lying shore, down be- 
low the cliff, for the sea was like a friend to 
her, a friend growing dearer with every pass- 
ing year ; from the time when she first clap- 
ped her tiny hands with delight at the sun- 
kissed wavelets, till the hour when she called 
the dancing waves fairies. — And on, to after 
hours, when she had learned the deep signifi- 
cance of their undertone calmness, even amid 
the wild commotion of the upper waters. 

It is said that “ romance is often commoner 
in real life than the commonplace ; ” certain 
it is, that those hours of her childhood spent 
with her father, were tinged with a glow of 


22 


IN THE MIST. 


beauty and delight to Elizabeth Endicott, 
that framed them all the after years of her 
life, in a halo of no commonplace radiance. 

But, she came at last to the awakening 
hour, for “ children never live very long, when 
they are not carried away in little coffins and 
laid in the silent grave, they become trans- 
formed, so that we lose them in another 
way.” And yet, though the child was lost to 
those who loved her, she herself never could 
lose the possession of that time, when so true 
of her were the poet’s words, “ Heaven lies 
about us in our infancy.” — So true, that 
not till her summers counted eighteen, did 
“ shades of the prison-house ” begin to 
darken ; — and after that, — well ! — she knew 
many a summer, and many a winter, before 
she found that other Heaven, the king- 
dom of God within the heart. — For, it is 
written, “ The kingdom of God is within 
you.” — “ The kingdom of God ! Not our 
kingdom, but His. — There lies the secret,” 
which only becomes an “ open-secret,” as the 
heart of childhood, or maturer years, softly 


IN THE MIST. 


23 


pleads, “ Lord, with me abide,” only as the 
heart of faith hears the tender assurance, 
“ Lo I am with you.” 

Eighteen summers ! It was a goodly space 
of time for Lisbeth to be growing thus : 

“ Like the plants, from unseen roots, 

In tongue-tied spring.” — 

What would she utter when the summer 
speech came to her — ? When the bud- 
ding-time opened into the blooming? Would 
she 

“ Bear through sorrow wrong and ruth 
In her heart the dew of youth, 

On her lips the smile of truth ? ” — 

Neither the grave man, her father, nor the 
kindly housekeeper, who loved her so well, 
could tell ; for let fancy weave as it will 
futures for our dearest, only to-morrow can 
tell to-morrow’s story, — and, — whoever caught 
to-morrow ? — 


III. 


S OMETHING of the same contradictori- 
ness, that in its many variations Elizabeth 
Endicott’s name held, pervaded also her 
home, and the influences that there sur- 
rounded her. — A blending of the strictly 
prosaic with the poetic. 

In her home this was manifested in well- 
nigh every room, for though we no longer set 
up our household gods in tangible form of 
sculptured marble, or pictured saint, yet they 
hold sway as much nowadays as ever they 
did, and, we every one of us, whether or not 
we recognize the truth, open glimpses into 
our hearts and tastes, by our surroundings. 

Mute signs of graceful fancies, love of 
color, beauty of form, and harmony of out- 
line, hinted at, perchance, by mere trifles, yet 
that indicate what we really are, as surely as 
the finger on the dial points to the hour. 

( 24 ) 




IN THE MIST . 


25 


So strong was the individuality of Doctor 
Endicott, in his home the love of literature, 
as well as of the beautiful and ideal, were 
everywhere evident ; even though at certain 
seasons of the year, practical Mrs. Blinn, 
draped statuette and bronze, pictures and 
mirrors, in billowy folds of tarletan and 
netting. 

And by such prudent care-taking, spite all 
her day-dreams for Elizabeth’s future, Mrs. 
Blinn, in a certain way, assumed the form of 
the prose of life to the young girl, while the 
hours spent with her father, were like Idyls 
for beauty and gladness. 

In truth, Mrs. Blinn was a most prosaic 
enforcer of old-time rules, and the child was 
early drilled in the mysteries of household 
duties, as well as in the old-fashioned tasks of 
hemming and stitching. 

Indeed, she was a swift, dexterous little 
needle-woman, even before she had reached 
her teens. She had too, from childhood, that 
instinctive grace of touch, which is the heri- 
tage of some women, the power to find and 


2 6 


IN’ THE MIST. 


bring out beauty from the seemingly un- 
beautiful. 

A rare gift from heaven, and surely as much 
to be desired as beauty of feature, or grace of 
person ; and, it always met with favor from 
the kindly housekeeper, who found it in her 
heart to smile approval at “ Lisbeth’s ways,” 
as she called them ; even when she checked 
her by some commonplace word or comment. 

It was an old mansion in which Doctor 
Endicott lived, the dwelling-place of his 
father and grandfather before him, and thus 
essentially a home. 

A place made sacred by the benediction of 
the departed ; — a place where lives, linked by 
ties of kindred, had for years met and crossed, 
something, as the angels on Jacob’s ladder, — 
some going up, — and some coming down. 

The house stood in a shady garden, a rod 
or two back from the central street of the 
town. One of those old gardens, where 
gnarled, weather-beaten trees cast shadows 
heavy and deep, and yet, a garden where 
there were sunny nooks all flower be-starred. 


IN THE MIST. 


27 


When the spring came, the shady places 
were so thick with violets and snow-drops, the 
child’s feet trod among them, ankle deep, and 
in summer, in the sunny nooks, June roses 
nodded in rosy blush and deep-dyed crimson. 

A winding walk from the front door le-d 
round to the eastern side of the house, where 
was Doctor Endicott’s office, and opening out 
of it, the library, with its wide window, that 
filled almost one side of the room, and framed 
in the near view of the ocean bay and the 
cliff, with its narrow path leading down to the 
shore. 

In front of the window grew an ash, its 
soft and dusky boughs seeming like a mystic 
veil, as they flitted before the sea-prospect of 
waves, sparkling blue and crisp in the golden 
.north wind of summer. 

Just above the library was Lisbeth’s own 
room, with a window wide as the one below. 
Reaching from it, her little hands could touch 
the boughs of the ash, and many and many 
v/ere the songs its leaves, and the sea waves 
sang to her. 


28 


IN THE MIST. 


The broad-cushioned window seat in the 
library, as well as in her own room, were Lis- 
beth’s favorite haunts, though every part ol 
the house was full of cheer to her. 

In fact, on entering that old mansion, one 
felt an indescribable sense of unostentatious 
luxury. — It was all so comfortable, — the mass- 
ive old furniture ; the wide-seated chairs ; the 
warm crimson hangings in parlor, library, and 
dining-room, gave such a sense of home to 
everything. There was, too, a pleasant, 
though mute companionship looking out from 
the quaint portraits that hung on either side 
of the wide hall. 

In every room there were open fire-places, 
and so bright Mrs. Blinn had the shining 
globes of andirons, and the smooth surface 
of the fenders kept ; they always held minia- 
ture pictures of the room. 

Pictures, that were like wonderful fairy 
stories to Lisbeth, who, as a child, used to 
rub her tiny fingers over the “ shiny places,” — 
wishing, as children will wish, for the impossi- 
ble, — that she could rub out the reflection of 


IN THE MIST. 


2 9 

herself ; and the room as it then looked, and 
see away back into the time when her father 
was a boy, — or those after days before God 
called her mother from earth. 

But, — no matter how hard she rubbed, the 
only pictures Lisbeth ever saw, were just of 
the present, for, — a child has no past. 

In winter, hickory logs glowed and sparkled 
in those broad chimney-places, and in sum- 
mer, a fragrant odor came from the huge blue 
china pot-pourri jars, that were placed in be- 
tween the shining andirons, and back of the 
fence-like fenders, — and, — somehow, those 
jars, with their odor of condensed sweetness, 
were like fairy stories too, to Lisbeth, — for, — 
were they not full of last year’s roses? 


IV. 


HILE Lisbeth, as a child, loved every 



child she met, found a friend in every 


man and woman, she was yet much alone, as 
she was later on ; but she never felt it soli- 
tude, for her own happy thoughts were her 
companions, and thoughts that are born out 
of innocent joys are ever glad. 

When she had exhausted Mrs. Blinn’s 
stock of learning, Masters came to teach her 
after the prescribed form of education, some 
successfully, and some unsuccessfully, accord- 
ing as they touched the responsive chord in 
her heart and mind, which, when rightly stir- 
red, gave forth sweetest strains of harmony; 
but when jarred, was tuneless. 

What she learned, she never conquered by 
rule, and there were those who blamed Doc- 
tor Endicott for this, saying he failed to 
discipline her young mind. 

Mrs. Blinn had many grave thoughts on 


(30) 


IN THE MIST. 


31 


the subject ; no one knew as well as she, that 
Lisbeth’s temper had never been really tried, 
her will never really crossed, for, though as a 
child and young girl, she had now and then 
slight troubles, they were no more like real 
trials than an April shower is like a rainy day. 
And Mrs. Blinn realized this want of early 
discipline might cause much future sorrow ; 
yet, she was too partial to confess her fear, 
when it was hinted at by Mrs. Grant and 
others. Once she had said something of it to 
Doctor Endicott, but he straightway replied : 

“ The discipline will come in good time, 
and the self-control too ; my little Lisbeth 
has plenty of force and character.” 

And Mrs. Blinn had no courage to pursue 
the topic then, or, in fact, ever to resume it. 
But Doctor Endicott did not forget, and more 
than once afterward, he said to himself, with 
a sigh : 

“A maiden is a tender thing, 

And best by a mother understood,” 


And yet, his thoughtful care-taking for 


32 


IN THE MIST. 


Lisbeth in well-nigh every respect, was equal 
to a mothers, — he only failed in striving to 
make life all happiness to her, rather than 
preparing her, as a wise mother would have 
done, for the stern realities, that must in a 
certain way, as years come and go, take the 
place of the ideal, for : 

" He who has not learned to know. 

How false its sparkling bubbles show. 

How bitter are the drops of woe, 

With which its brim may overflow, 

He has not learned to live." 

Lisbeth had an intense delight in color, but 
“ you can no more bind her to method, than 
you can dictate a bird’s flight,” her painting- 
master was wont to say, as he watched her 
swift blending of wealth and brilliancy of hue, 
with delicate tint and shadowy outline. 

Music, too, was a joy to her, and yet, the 
little fingers that so lightly wandered over 
the ivory keys, bringing out melody, were 
fitful as fire-flies, dancing away from the pre- 
scribed harmony on the page open before her, 
even when her eyes were resting on it. 


IN THE MIST. 


33 


Almost from childhood, she was as familiar 
with Poets’ songs, as flowers are with sun- 
shine, though it was even then the unwritten 
poems, lying all about her, that sang the 
sweetest songs to Lisbeth ; just as later on, it 
was the unwritten stories, — the short, sad 
stories, which like sand on the ocean beach, 
lie so thick about some hearts, some lives, — 
that told her sadder tales than ever she found 
on poet’s page. — Those stories that bore the 
stamp of real life. 

Doctor Endicott had a large practice. He 
loved his profession ; his heart with every 
passing year had grown more sensitive to suf- 
fering, rather than dulled by contact with it, 
more eager to relieve it, as far as science 
could ; and, he never refused to go when sent 
for, though sometimes he was sought by 
dwellers far beyond the town limits. 

It was a rich farming country all about G., 
— and on the long drives which the Doctor so 
frequently took, Elizabeth was wont to be his 
sole companion, and those hours were the 
gladdest of all her glad hours. It was so 
3 


34 


IN THE MIST. 


sweet to the loving daughter to be by her 
fathers side, as they drove through shady 
lanes, up wooded hills, or by the side of rich 
pasture or full harvest-fields, — catching now 
and then, if the road were not too far inland, 
glimpses of the sparkling, dancing sea-waves. 

So sweet, for even when her father was 
silent, she knew he had not forgotten her, 
for when she looked up into his face, he al- 
ways smiled in response, and then, she would 
nestle her hand into his, or lay it on his knee, 
with such a wonderful sense of safety and 
peace. When at last they came to their des- 
tination, and the old horse Robin, who could 
be so fleet of foot, so slow and moderate when 
there was no haste, was safely fastened to 
hitching-post or tree, and Doctor Endicott, 
with a smile, and good-bye, left her, Lisbeth 
would lean back on the soft cushions of the 
chaise, and tell herself story after story about 
the patients her father had gone to visit, — 
stories that always had a bright ending, for 
father will make them well, she used to say 
to herself, with never a thought that there 


IN THE MIST. 


35 


might be suffering, which he could not heal ; 
might be partings, that his skill could not 
avert. 

But, though her fancies were so many, she 
never asked questions about the people in the 
rooms behind the closed windows and drawn 
blinds, though sometimes her father would 
tell her of a sick child, and then on their next 
visit, she would beg to take some picture- 
book, or toy, saying, when she was a little 
thing : “ Please say, papa, it is from a very 
well little child to a sick one,” — and, her 
father did not point out to her the harshness 
of the contrast held in the words, — but she 
felt it for herself as she grew older, and then 
she changed her form of speech, into : “ Say 
your daughter, who feels so sorry for those 
who suffer, sends this,” — and, though Lisbeth 
thus spoke, she was, in truth, as much a 
stranger to suffering, as she was to the con- 
trast in her childhood’s words. — For, — how 
can we know that which we have never felt ? 
— But, — her father did not tell her that either. 


V. 


r | "'HERE is ever such sweetness in the 
record of a happy childhood, we would 
fain linger over Elizabeth Endicott’s, but the 
years, spite their sweetness, sped on, and her 
story must not tarry behind them. 

It is hard to go back and picture the youth- 
ful appearance of this maiden of our tale. It 
is so much more natural to describe her in the 
aftertime, when life had left its impress on 
face, and voice, smile and manner, toning 
down the bright colors of sunrise, into quiet 
twilight shades, hushing the joy-ringing song 
into a softer strain. — For there is always the 
same difference between life in youth, and life 
when the meridian is crossed, that there is 
between sunrise and sunset. — The bright hues 
and glory of the one, gradually melting into 
the full light of mid-day; the tender rays of 
the other, be they ever so bright, softening 
(36) 


IN THE MIST. 


37 


and fading at last into darkness, — or, into 
everlasting morning. — Which ?*— Lisbeth was 
not called beautiful even in her youth, and 
yet no one ever looked at her without long- 
ing to look again ; she possessed so singularly 
the something, that words will not tell ; the 
subtle charm, that made one think of poets’ 
dreams, and artists’ visions. 

In her gladness, she seemed like the Aphro- 
dite of Greek mythology, who rose out of the 
sea, as the fable runs, and hastened with rosy 
feet to the land, where grasses and flowers 
sprang up beneath her light tread. 

In her thoughts, she had only caught 
echoes of the real life that men and women 
must live, if they would be what God meant 
them to be. — It was spring-time to her, — and 
in the spring-time of life, “ hopes, they turn 
like marigolds to the sunny side.” 

In her daily life, she was a sweet and happy 
thing, the joy of her home, and yet the only 
picture there is of her then, is of a tall, 
slender maiden, graceful as a lily-bell, — sweet 
eyes, rare blue eyes, that looked lovingly on 


38 


IN THE MIST. 


all whom she met, eyes that even then had 
tender depths in them, — rose-bud lips, that 
wore the v soft dimple of a musing smile.” — 
Yes, this is the only picture of her, except 
the later one, when her aforetime glad smile 
had given place to the look, which made her 
face so tender and thoughtful, when her eyes 
shone with that nameless light which only 
comes when a soul has toiled up to the very 
hiH-top of self-abnegation, — for, — only on the 
summit of that Upland, is learned “the holy 
secret of the impersonal life, — only to remem- 
ber one’s trials in prayer.” 

Sometimes when life presses sore, when 
troubles beat about us like storm-tossed waves 
on rocky shore, we cry out of our very bitter- 
ness, — Can we ever know that peace, ever 
reach that summit ? — 

Then it is, that lives such as Elizabeth En- 
dicott’s, stormy lives, shadowed by years of 
doubting, of loneliness and pain, answer, “ Yes, 
you can reach that height, though the way be 
long and rough, for Christ said : ‘ My grace is 


IN THE MIST. 


39 


sufficient/ — yes, you can know that calm, for 
1 there is a summer land, where it is always 
peace, where the soul is nevermore alone, be- 
cause God is there.’ ” 

Hearkening to these answers, we seem to 
know what those forty years meant to the 
man of God, — those wilderness years that led 
to Pisgah’s mount, — and yet, like the disciples 
of old, whose feet were on the very summit 
of the Transfiguration hill, when we “ enter 
the cloud ” to learn this lesson, — “ we fear ” — 
fear even though we know, “ out of the cloud 
the Voice sounded,” even though we know 
Jesus will come to us, as He did to them, 
saying, “ Be not afraid.” 

“Oh for a light from Heaven, 

Clear and divine, 

Now on the paths before us 
Brightly to shine ! 

Oh for a hand to beckon ! 

Oh for a voice to say, 

‘Follow in firm assurance — • 

This is the way ! ' " 

Well ! we may have it, if we have faith. — 
But what is faith ? 


40 


IN THE MIST . 


“ Now faith is the substance of things hoped 
for, the evidence of things not seen.” 

“ Faith, that the Lord never gives, without 
in some way, ere long, putting it to the test.” 

Why? — Is it to lead us to pray, “ Lord, 
increase our faith ? ” — 


VI. 


TUST one peep into Elizabeth’s sitting- 
^ room, told the story of her father’s almost 
womanly care for her, better than words can, 
for every detail that surrounded her there, 
whispered of it. 

It was not a large room, and we have al- 
ready described the eastern window, with its 
broad seat, that filled nearly one side. 

Dainty curtains of snowy muslin were 
looped back from the casement, with wide, 
blue ribbons, that Mrs. Blinn used playfully to 
call, “ a bit of Lisbeth’s extravagance.” 

And the sunshine had a loving trick in 
summer, and in winter, of creeping in through 
that window, and playing like a caress or 
smile about Lisbeth’s low chair, her favorite 
books,, little work-basket, and dearest of all 
her treasures, the lily-shaped vase of crystal 
glass, that, filled with fresh flowers, always 

(41) 


42 


IN THE MIST. 


stood on the center-table. To be sure, some- 
times, they were nothing more than a handful 
of violets, field daisies, golden-rod and purple 
asters, as the season might be, — but always 
fresh, for Lisbeth had an instinctive dread of 
faded buds and blossoms. 

On the morning of her eighteenth birthday, 
as she entered the room, she found Mrs. Blinn 
had been there before her, for the vase held a 
cluster of June roses.. The pinkest roses of 
all the summer, — there were white nun-like 
sister buds too, so sharp in contrast to the 
rosy blushing ones, that Lisbeth rested her 
finger on them for a moment, while a shadow 
flitted across her face, as she murmured : 

“Are they types of sorrowful days, that 
must come in my year, I want it to be all joy.” 

And hastily, she pulled one of the deepest- 
dyed roses of them all, from the cluster, and 
fastened it in her golden brown hair. 

Then, as was a way of hers, she fell into 
wondering, why roses were ever white, — roses, 
the flowers that always seemed dropped out 
of sunrise and sunset glory clouds. 


IN THE MIST. 


43 


She wondered, too, if the old legend were 
true, that white flowers were freighted with 
the sweetest perfumes, like pure, stainless 
hearts, with spiritual graces. 

But Lisbeth’s musings were speedily inter- 
rupted, for she heard a voice calling : 

“ Lisbeth, Lisbeth.” 

It was Mrs. Blinn ; and hardly had the echo 
of that call died away, before, in a tone clear 
as a bird-song, Lisbeth answered : 

“ I am coming.” 

A minute later she came, — came as she had 
done a hundred times before at Mrs. Blinn’s 
call, gaily, unconsciously, with never a thought 
that the day held her future, as the bud holds 
the flower. 

This unconsciousness of what days will 
bring, when days begin, is such a tender prov- 
idence, for there come to us all days, when 
even though the sky be cloudless, sunrise 
would be clouded, if we were to know the 
weaving of the thread of our life, that is 
going on, in what we call, “ the commonplace 
passage of the hours.” 


44 


IN THE MIST. 


Lisbeth tarried but a minute with Mrs. 
Blinn, only long enough to answer her birth- 
day greeting, and to playfully say : 

“ No, no ; I will not have you tell me, be- 
cause I am eighteen to-day, to put away and 
have done with childish things, for I do love 
the child-time, that must end, I suppose, for 
years are so arbitrary, they will go on count- 
ing up and up, no matter how much one 
longs to stay their progress.’ ’ 

And with a light caress, laughingly she 
turned away, and sought the flower-bordered 
garden walk, gathering as she went, now one 
blossom and then another, till the light basket 
she carried grew almost heavy, with its wealth 
of blooms. 

Then she wandered on down to the cliff. — 
It was high tide, and sitting on the projecting 
rock, she could look straight down into the 
water, that was so blue and calm that morning. 

Of all summer hours, there are none more 
lovely than those that hold the benediction 
of day-dawn, and the beauty surrounding her 
made life a pure delight to the young girl. 


IN THE MIST : 


45 


As she retraced her steps homeward, the 
early sunbeams falling on the dew-kissed 
flowers seemed to draw forth all the fragrance 
they had garnered during the night, and the 
air was laden with perfume, something as a 
soul is sweet with peace, after the dews of 
refreshment that fall in the darkness of sor- 
row, are smiled upon by the sunbeams of 
Heavenly Love. 

But Lisbeth was then unlearned in the ten- 
der metaphors Nature hints to souls that read 
her parables. — Yet, before nightfall, she re- 
membered the morning, as something very 
far off, so much the day held for her, and as 
she remembered, she thought of the flowers 
starred with dew-drops, and of how the dew 
had not fallen till darkness and shadows of 
night had shrouded flower and leaf; but, she 
did not find comfort in the thought, she was 
ignorant of the significance of the Bible 
promise : “ I will love them freely, I will be 
as the dew unto Israel ; ” — a stranger to the 
meaning of those words of old Luther’s : “ I 
had not known what a lovely thing the dew 


46 


IN THE MIST. 


is, unless the holy Scriptures had commended 

it, when God says, ‘ I will give thee of the 
dew of Heaven/ — Ah, the creation is a beau- 
tiful thing, when we ought to be understand- 
ing it, we lisp and stammer, and say cledo, 
for credo ; like the babes, we never can under- 
stand, save through the Son.” This is the sum 
of his discourse : “ Per me — per me — per me.” — 

It is so wonderful ; the much of comfort a 
tiny dew-drop holds if He smiles on it. 

The second call Lisbeth heard that birth- 
day morning, was her father’s, and swift as a 
bird she obeyed that summons. 

Doctor Endicott was standing in the ^open 
doorway, over which climbed, in sweet confu 
sion, honey-suckle, eglantine, and clematis. 

Lisbeth did not at first notice that her 
father was not alone, — she was so eager to 
show him the flowers, and half concealed, and 
half opened buds, her moss-lined basket held, 
— when she did notice, it was only to pet- 
ulantly wish the stranger away. — For in her 
heart was thrilling a question she longed to 
ask. 


IN THE MIST. 


47 


A question, “ born out of the sounds and 
sights of nature,” that coming in through 
eye and ear to the soul, had hinted and fore- 
shadowed a something more in life than she 
had yet known. 

And yet, — that morning of all mornings, 
she had only time for a loving word from her 
father, who, almost straightway after introduc- 
ing her to the stranger, — Mr. Alexander 
Gordon, — resumed the conversation her com- 
ing had interrupted, — and then, the breakfast 
bell rang, — and then, the day, and the day’s 
occupations thronged in. 


VII. 


HAT breakfast was an uncomfortable 



meal to Lisbeth, or rather, for the first 
time in her life, she had a feeling of self-con- 
sciousness as she presided at the table. 

“ I can not tell why,” she said afterward, 
when talking to Mrs. Blinn, “ but Mr. Gordon 
makes me feel something as I fancy a wise 
old owl must make poor little wingsters of 
the feathered tribe feel, — something as though, 
like the birds, I knew nothing but a song, 
while he, wise owl, knows every habit and 
haunt of cross-bill, and wren, robin, and blue 
jay, — all the time during breakfast,” she 
added with a gay laugh, “ I felt like singing 
out, — yes, I know, I am nothing but a child, 
— I know 

“ ‘ I watch the light and shade in ceaseless play. 

And wrap about me many a golden dream ; ’ 


(t8) 


IN THE MIST. 


49 


I know 

“ ‘ I have no haunting memories of grief, 

No care for living, more than have the flowers 
Who wear the perfect blossom and the leaf, 

With little thought of common time or hours.’ 

And then when I said anything he looked 
so much amused, — I almost thought he would 
laugh outright when papa, who knows how 
dearly I love sunrise, asked, ‘ Well, my daugh- 
ter, what of the morning?' — and I repeated 
for answer Mrs. Browning’s lines beginning, 

“‘Two pale thin clouds did stand upon 
The meeting line of sea and sky.’ — 

I wonder if it is childish to repeat poetry?" 

Looking up from the flowers she was ar- 
ranging, Lisbeth found herself alone ; for the 
busy housekeeper had gone. — But she did not 
much mind, for her thoughts were quite ab- 
sorbed with this Mr. Gordon, and she contin- 
ued to muse aloud, saying : 

“ His smile is so unlike my father's, it seems 
nothing more than a thing of politeness, or 
amusement when he observes me,— not at all 
4 


50 


IN THE MIST. 


as though it came from his heart, as my 
father’s smiles do. — I wonder if out in the 
world, in the 4 society ’ that Mrs. Grant talks 
of my becoming familiar with, there is just as 
much difference in the way people smile, as 
there is between a ripple on the ocean and a 
real stirring wave. — The one, merely on the 
surface, and the other coming up as it were 
from the ocean’s heart. — What a wonderful 
place that heart must be, and yet we who sail 
on the ocean know no more about it than an 
inland traveler, who stands upon the beach, 
and because he sees the broad expanse, thinks 
he knows its wonders, while all the time he 
is a stranger to the dashing foam-crested 
waves, the wonderful light and shade, the 
varying color, now blue as the sky, now green 
as meadow grass, now warm with rosy glow, 
and then cold and angry. The ocean’s heart ! 
how many treasures it holds.” 

Just here Lisbeth’s musings were inter- 
rupted by the sound of slow, monotonous 
steps, passing to and fro on the gravel walk. 

Peeping through the half-drawn blind she 


IN THE MIST. 


51 

saw it was Mr. Gordon and her father. — And 
a minute later her fathers chaise was driven 
up to the door, and Doctor Endicott entered 
the house before starting on his morning 
round of visits. 

He only lingered long enough to bid Lis- 
beth good-bye, and to tell her of his regret 
that she could not be his companion on that 
morning, and to say, with a smile tenderer 
even, it seemed to her as she afterward recalled 
it, than his always tender smiles. 

“ You will find your birthday gift, my Lily- 
bell, waiting for you in your room, and to- 
night we will talk of its contents'” 

(But, — so seldom we talk at nightfall of 
what we plan in the morning, — so seldom). 

And then Doctor Endicott hastened away. 

For a minute or two after his departure 
Lisbeth stood with downcast eyes and flushed 
face, she was too much disappointed at the 
loss of her anticipated morning talk to rally at 
once, and with impatience, she pushed aside 
the few flowers remaining to be arranged, say- 
ing in a tone of vexation : 


52 


IN THE MIST. 


“ I wish this Mr. Gordon had never come, 
and if he had to, why must be needs choose 
this of all days ? ” 

Then her mood changed, and laughing mer- 
rily at her own impatience, she danced across 
the broad hall, and up the wide staircase, 
eager to see her birthday gift. 

On opening the door of her room, she 
straightway beheld it. An antique cabinet of 
curious device, heavily ornamented with or- 
molu, and inlaid with birds and flowers 
wrought in mother-of-pearl, intermingled with 
a broad tracery of vine-leaves, and grotesque 
figures in tortoise-shell. 

Lisbeth at once saw that it was not a new 
treasure, and her heart beat quickly as she 
felt it must have been her mother’s. — Yes, 
truly it had been, for on a card which was 
suspended by a narrow ribbon from the silver 
key, Doctor Endicott had written, “ For my 
daughter Elizabeth, on her eighteenth birth- 
day, — memories of her mother.” 

For long after reading those words there 
was silence in the room. Lisbeth was a girl 


IN THE MIST. 


53 


of intense feeling, more intense perchance be- 
cause, except when with her father, spite her 
gaiety of spirits, she was wont to be reserved, 
and for the young, beautiful mother, whose 
life had gone to heaven as hers came to earth, 
Lisbeth’s heart treasured a longing even her 
father did not guess. She loved this unknown 
mother with a love, which was holy, as that 
one feels for childhood’s creed of religious 
faith, even before that faith has become a part 
of one’s life. 

Deep rooted in her heart, too, was a hope 
that some day she would see and know her 
mother. — A hope which was very real, though 
she was a stranger to the why of a Christian’s 
appropriating trust, in Immortality, and Res- 
urrection promises. 

In spite of her desire to know more than 
she did of her mother, she was half afraid to 
turn the key, and open wide those little doors, 
which would reveal broader glimpses she 
somehow felt than she had ever had, of what 
that mother’s tastes had really been ; for, 
softly she said to herself, “ one’s treasures 


54 


IN THE MIST. 


always tell such secrets of oneself,” — and 
thinking thus, the awe of looking within, 
seemed to hold her spell-bound. 

Full an hour went by, and still the key was 
unturned, the door unopened. — But by and 
by, the striking of the little clock on the 
mantel roused her, — a sunbeam, too, had crept 
through the open window, and quite across 
the room, till it fell aslant the cabinet, lighting 
up the mother-of-pearl designs on wings and 
breasts of birds, into faint rosy sea-shell hues, 
and putting color into every flower, while the 
grotesque figures and clustering vine-leaves 
seemed to lose the sombre tints of the 
tortoise-shell, and to glow with golden bright- 
ness. — And then, — when the sunshine was 
about her, Lisbeth at last found courage to 
turn the key. 


VIII. 


A KEY that Doctor Endicott had not 
turned since a night, not long after his 
young wife’s death — and then, it was to shut, 
not to open. 

As the long closed doors flew apart, at 
Lisbeth’s trembling touch, the room was 
straightway pervaded with a faint sickly odor, 
that for a moment, though she was strong and 
well, made her dizzy. 

It came from a box of carved sandal-wood 
which had kept its intense perfume, while 
the sweetness of a bunch of faded roses in a 
tiny drawer below, had all gone long ago. — 
And yet, the roses had been so much dearer 
a memento, than the carved wood ! — Why did 
their fragrance go first ? — Another life prob- 
lem, another unanswered question, to meet 
Lisbeth on that morning. 

The looking over these treasures was a 

( 55 ) 


IN THE MIST. 


56 

strange, exciting task, seeming in a certain 
way to give a serious significance, a fore- 
shadowing of what was coming, to her play- 
ful words to Mrs. Blinn, that she did not want 
the child-time to end that day, for all sud- 
denly, as she gazed on what had been her 
mother’s, life became more real to Elizabeth 
Endicott. 

She was so brought with all her own future 
before her into the very presence of another’s 
past. 

A past hidden from her, as mist sometimes 
of a summer morning veiled the cliff, and yet 
a mist that could not shut away the echo of 
the voices of the fishermen out in the Bay, 
just as the silence of those mute things could 
not still a mystic voice from the life which had 
held them dear, an echo, from the unknown 
shore, of her mother’s youth. 

“ Have we not too ? yes, we have 
Answers and we know not whence ; 

Echoes from beyond the grave. 

Recognized intelligence.” 

The cabinet did not hold much of great 


IN THE MIST. 


57 


value, but every trinket and souvenir seemed 
freighted, and inwrought with what had 
meant much to her young mother. 

“ Only a girl like I am now,” Lisbeth softly 
repeated, and her heart was full of an eager 
longing to touch the mute things into speech, 
to grasp something of her mother’s past, with 
a more tangible hold than an echo. 

“ If I only had,” she murmured, “ one of 
my father’s real heart-memories, I would not 
ask for more, — one of those heart-pictures, 
that papa says are painted in brighter colors, 
than even with all my love of color I can 
dream, — but to me it is all so vague, — her 
child, and yet with no memory of a mother’s 
smile, or caress.” 

Presently Lisbeth brushed the tears from 
her eyes, though they did not go from her 
heart, and then she opened one drawer after 
another, looking tenderly at their contents, — 
touching little mementoes of a pure innocent 
young life. — The jewels that had been her 
husband’s wedding gift, lay in the rich case 
that held them, just as Nanette’s hands had 


53 


IN THE MIST. 


left them on their satin cushion, that was white 
as snow then, but now yellow with time. — 
And spite the contrast with the intrinsic value 
of the jewels, there lay a bunch of faded vio- 
lets close beside the sparkling gems. — Shad- 
owy spirit-like flowers, that once had been of 
deepest blue. It was much the same story with 
everything Lisbeth found. A linking of the 
hidden sweetness of love that tells its story 
oftener in flowers than in jewels, for by the 
side' of well-nigh every gem there was some 
■ simple souvenir, that seemed to whisper, “ I 
tell only of love, — only of love.” But, it was a 
book, heavily bound in Russia leather, and 
opening by a silver clasp, that hinted to Lis- 
beth more of her mother than aught else. 

It was half a sketch-book, and half a journal. 
It dated from a few months before her moth- 
er’s marriage, and on to only a week before 
her death. An enigma book it seemed at first 
sight, but it speedily became full of meaning 
with its pages traced by stray lines from favor- 
ite author, or poet’s song ; and marked by 
pressed flowers and ferns, as though the bright 


IN THE MIST. 


59 


colored and green things had been used as 
memory-marks for days, and joys, as one uses 
dates. 

There were pages, too, where were outlined 
sketches of mountain and sea views ; and 
studies of trees, rugged oaks, graceful elms, 
and spire-like cedars ; and of rocks, some bold 
and jagged, others overgrown with mosses, 
clumps of ferns, patches of blue-bells, or up- 
right tufts of^ columbine. 

Like guide-posts they seem to Lisbeth, 
pointing to broad glimpses into her mother’s 
heart, — the child-wife, who had been so dear 
to Doctor Endicott because a child in that 
child-likcncss of which Christ said, “ Become 
as little children.” 

This was especially revealed by brief sen- 
tences, scattered here and there, and though 
Lisbeth was too ignorant in spiritual experi- 
ences to fully grasp their meaning, many of 
them she found voice-full. 

Long she pondered over the words, “ Keep 
your heart pure, that it may never be a stranger 
to prayer.” 


6o 


IN THE MIST. 


It was a new thought to her, that only a 
holy heart can abide always under the brood- 
ing wings of nearness to God. 

A nearness that is something different from 
the commonly realized care of the Heavenly 
Father which we call Providence ; a closer 
nearness that lifts the heart where prayer 
abides up to the Heavenly Love, and so is 
typified by a child’s heart ; — for, — who clings 
so close to a father’s hand as a child ? 

The written words in the book were dearer 
even than the graceful traceries of pencil and 
brush, just as the simple souvenirs were dearer 
than the gems. 

But dearest of all the treasures Lisbeth 
found in the old cabinet, was a bit of half- 
finished work, a dainty garment for a baby 
form, — she knew it had been meant for her- 
self, — a simple thing, but full of tender hints 
of mother-love to the motherless girl. 

When at last Lisbeth gathered up the 
treasures, and, with touch loving as a caress, 
laid them away one by one, she could not lose 
the sense that she had actually been into the 


IN THE MIST. 


6 1 


Past. She looked around the room with a 
feeling that her mother must be near her in 
visible presence. — She stretched out her hand 
as though to clasp that long-ago dead moth- 
er’s hand. But, — there was no answering 

touch, — no visible presence in the room, only 
the common daylight, the fam liar furniture, 
and the nodding June roses on the center- 
table. 

And then a smile lit up for a moment Lis- 
beth’s face ; for, though she was far from any 
real heart-knowledge of Divine things, she had 
been so carefully taught by her father she rec- 
ognized the comforting significance of many 
Bible passages, and wanting her mother as 
she did, her thoughts turned to the angels, 
and she wondered if some good man like 
Elisha of old were to pray for her as he prayed 
for the young man, “ Lord, I pray Thee, open 
his eyes, and the Lord opened his eyes, and 
he saw the mountain was full of horses and 
chariots,” would her eyes be opened, too, to 
behold her mother, for surely Lisbeth said to 
herself, “ The meaning of that God-given sight 


62 


IN THE MIST. 


to the young man is, that about us all are min- 
istering^spirits— the angels, if our eyes were 
but open to see them.” 

Many other thoughts, much of the same 
kind, thronged into her heart that morning 
of her eighteenth birthday, and thus her 
mother’s earth-life, that ended so long before, 
took hold as it were of her child’s life. 

Is it always so, that when God calls to 
Himself the pure in heart, He lets fall from 
their example and lives, seeds of sweet 
influence and holy aspirations, that upspring 
and blossom in other hearts and lives ? 

It is pleasant to think so, sweet to believe, 
that most exquisite of all flowers in shape 
and hue, the Rose of Sharon, is a type of 
human life. The legend runs : “ Its blossoms 
are bell-shaped, and of many mingled hues 
and dyes ; and in the land of the far East, it 
is adopted as the emblem of the Resurrec- 
tion, and regarded with profoundest reverence 
for the sake of the life-parable it holds, for 
when the season of flowering is over, the 
leaves that encircle the round blossoms, dry 


IN THE MIST 


63 

and close together, and the stalk withering 
completely away, the flower is blown at last 
from the stem on which it grew, and having 
dried in the form of a ball, is carried by the 
breeze to great distances, borne over wastes 
and sandy deserts, till at last, it touches some 
moist place, where immediately it takes root 
and springs to fresh life and beauty again.” 

Yes, we repeat, it is sweet to believe, like 
the flowers, saintly lives and examples up- 
spring and live again in other lives and hearts, 
though, perchance, the years in which they 
seem dead, are as many as the wastes and 
sandy desert miles of that far-off country. 


IX. 


ISBETH had been so utterly absorbed 



^ in the contents of the cabinet, she had 
taken no note of passing time. She had paid 
no heed either to the unwonted sounds in the 
house ; she had not even heard the tread of 
heavy footfalls .coming slowly up the stairway, 
neither had she noticed the murmur of sup- 
pressed voices, and the frequent passing to 
and fro in the hall of hasty footsteps. — 

She was no more prepared for the coming 
of sorrow, than a flower that blooms on a 
sunny hill-side is prepared for crushing storm. 
The first great grief of her life was sudden to 
her, as a lightning-flash ! 

“ How shall we tell her,” again and again 
Mrs. Blinn had asked, — but no one answered. 
— And thus minutes sped on, to full two 
hours, after Doctor Endicott’s silent form was 


(64) 


IN THE MIST. 


65 


carried into the home, from which he had 
gone forth apparently in the vigor of his man- 
hood, only a brief time before, — the home, in 
which his last utterance had been loving 
words to his child. — Minutes sped to hours, 
and Lisbeth knew nothing of it all. — 

But at last she opened her door, — &nd then, 
only a second divided the tranquil peace in 
her heart from the wild anguish that straight- 
way filled it. 

She came forth more quietly than was her 
usual way, for though she was singing, it was 
a low, wistful song, like a refrain of her 
thoughts. 

A song, that was silenced in a moment, for 
on the threshold she met Mrs. Blinn, who had 
been waiting patiently for her coming, and 
struggling for courage to say the words that 
must be said ; but who, when at last she 
came, only folded her in her arms with a cry 
of grief. 

Perhaps it was better so, — perhaps the lan- 
guage of tears told more gently than words, 
of the sorrow that awaited Lisbeth. 

5 


66 


IN THE MIST. 


It was Mr. Gordon, — almost a stranger, — 
who later told all there was to tell, — so little, 
— just the heart-breaking truth, that Doctor 
Endicott, only an hour after parting from her, 
had been stricken with sudden illness, — so 
sudden, — one moan of pain, one feeble effort 
to speak, — and then, — the beating heart for- 
ever stilled ; “ the silver cord loosened ; the 
golden bowl of life broken, and the spirit, 
with God who gave it.” 

Words can not picture the anguish of that 
day to Elizabeth Endicott, yet, she was out- 
wardly calm, — she uttered no word ; she shed 
no tear, — she only shook her head as they 
tried to lead her away from the room. 

She was as one deaf to the consolations 
with which Mr. Grant, her pastor from baby- 
hood, strove to comfort her. 

Only as she held her father’s hand, — never 
cold to her clasp before, — only as she gazed 
on his face, that had ever till then been 
responsive to her least appeal, did a look come 
into her eyes, as though she held communion 
with him still. 


IN THE MIST. 


6 ? 

A far-away look of eager yearning, a some- 
thing that seemed to tell that her great love 
gave her insight ' into the silence that sur- 
rounded him. A look, as though for a mo- 
ment, love opened the way into an under- 
standing of the mystery of it all. — Did it ? — 
Can it? 

All day she sat by his side, sat there till the 
sun set ; till the light faded from the sky, and 
twilight shadows stole in through the open 
window, while darkness deepened over sea 
and land. 

They brought candles into the room at last, 
— candles, the flames of which flickered and 
shone like stars in the gloom, — for the night 
had come. 

“If she would only speak; if she would 
only shed a tear,” Mrs. Blinn repeated, in 
sob-broken tones. — 

But, Lisbeth shed no tear, — uttered no 
word, — and the night wore on to day. — 


X. 


O Lisbeth the days that closely followed 



that night of watching by her father’s 
side, were ever afterward as a blank. 

When she strove to recall them, memory 
seemed dulled ; she was like one asleep, except 
at rare intervals, when she gave way to un- 
controllable grief, which vented itself in pas- 
sionate weeping, that left her weak and tired 
like a feeble child. 

After these times, she clung to Mrs. Blinn 
with such an unspoken helpless sorrow in 
her eyes, it well-nigh broke the good woman’s 
heart. 

“ My poor little lady-bird, who has forgot- 
ten how to sing,” she would softly say, as she 
smoothed the hair back from Lisbeth’s aching 
brow, or rubbed her cold trembling hands. 

“ Poor little Lily-bell, that is broken from 
its stem, my crushed flower.” 


( 68 ) 


IN THE MIST. 


69 

And truly Lisbeth’s heart was like a flower, 
that in the midst of midsummer’s warmth and 
gladness, is suddenly bent low, and withered 
by a blighting frost ; for during those times of 
reserve, she almost resented the comfort with 
which friends tried to console her; during 
them, she even turned coldly away from Mrs. 
Blinn, while her very nature seemed changed, 
— and it was changed in a certain way, — for 
the day when they carried her father to his 
grave, her aforetime unquestioning belief in 
God’s goodness and love, seemed suddenly 
to vanish, and thus, poor child, she was like 
a drifting boat on stormy water, with anchor 
gone, and no helmsman to guide to land. 

For when she had once opened her heart to 
let in a doubt of God’s goodness, other ques- 
tions and doubts before unknown, had come 
rushing in too, — and foremost among them, 
the great unanswerable why of trouble. — 

The question, that bars heart-doors against 
the entrance of God’s love, as no other ques- 
tion does. — The why , that only is hushed by 
Faith’s answer, — “ He knows.” — 


70 


IN THE MIST. 


Youth is a time of questions, and Lisbeth 
had felt them stirring before the trouble came. 
On the morning of her birthday, though she 
was in the full gladness of joy, she had looked 
up to the sky, and out to the sea, with a 
newly awakened wonder and questioning in 
her heart, where thoughts thronged that had 
been intensified by the glimpses into her 
mother’s life, revealed through the cabinet- 
held treasures, and then, by the hours of 
watching by her father’s motionless form. 

If she could have gone to him, with her 
perplexities, her ignorance, and her longings, 
it seemed to her they would have vanished as 
mist before the sunrise. 

But without her father to tell her what it 
all meant, she was a child lost in the fog, who 
hears notes of a lighthouse bell, warning that 
rocks are near, perilous sands, and dangerous 
reefs, and yet catches through the gloom not 
even a glimmer from the swinging lamp in 
the tower. 

There was nothing strange in her state of 
mind, though it sorely puzzled Mrs. Blinn, to 


IN THE MIST. 


7 1 


whom it would have been easy of explanation, 
had she known a little more of human nature, 
and the subtle working of intense grief on a 
heart, that for the first time feels its touch. 

For when the deepest emotions of a young 
soul are stirred, from whatever cause, there 
is wont to be a longing for knowledge ; a 
yearning to understand the mystery of life, 
and death, a “ reaching out after the Infinite,” 
even though it be almost, unconsciously. 

And, till that birthday morning, Lisbeth’s 
heart had been as unruffled by touch of 
trouble or perplexing thought, as a deep stilly 
pool, thus she was as unprepared to compre- 
hend why sorrow and discipline were needed ; 
as she was powerless to explain the mystery 
of the over-arching sky, or the wonders of the 
wide ocean. And when suddenly she was 
brought face to face with trouble, when for 
the first time she recognized the great puls- 
ing sob-note of pain, as a more universal cry 
than joy ; when for the first time she longed, 
and longed in vain, for the voice of her 
father’s love and help, — for the first time, 


72 


IN THE MIST. 


learned the meaning of the word loneliness, 
there came a sense of bitterness into her 
heart. 

The rebellion of a hurt child, against the 
Lord, who had let sorrow come to her, who 
let sorrow come to hundreds of hearts, with 
every passing hour all the broad world over. 

She had lived all her life before in the 
sunshine. — How could she find her way in the 
dark ? — 

There were those who told her, but she 
would not heed their words, she turned from 
them impatiently. 

“What made her so calm?” asked more 
than one who had watched her during the 
day and night following her father’s death. 

“ What gave the look to her face then, as 
though she were going with him part way up 

“ ‘ The silvery shining stair, 

That leads to God ? ’ ” 

Was it only because of her clinging clasp of 
her earthly father’s hand, her love for him, 
and not from any sense of the nearness of the 
Heavenly Father? 


IN THE MIST. 


73 


Was this why she was left afterward, com- 
fortless, why there thrilled in her heart a wild 
restless pain, a longing to know the why of it, 
and yet a rebellious cry against the only One 
who can make the why of grief and suffering 
plain ? 

It was a pitiful thing, that in those first 
days of her grief, Lisbeth thus lost the privi- 
leges of her sorrow ; for sorrow has privileges 
that joy misses ! 

Think, — “ if all the loneliness of sorrow ful- 
filled its purposes, how glorious life would be. 
— If we were all faithful to that darkness 
which so dwarfs the ordinary interests of this 
world, how affliction would be the greatest 
blessing, — how in exchange for one friend on 
earth, we should get the vision of eternity; 
the splendor of Divine light ; a hope sancti- 
fied by tears; the assurance of the infinite 
Presence ; the sweet hope in that Providence 
which fits the discipline of eternity to the 
heart’s deepest need.” 

All this Lisbeth lost, for a weary long 
time, — lost, by admitting doubts into her 


IN THE MIST. 


74 

heart ; for though the teachings of her father, 
the influence of her mother were there too, 
they were veiled from her by mists of her 
own making, her own admitting; mists, alas, 
heavier than the sea fogs, which sometimes 
hid from sight the cliff and the shore. 

Not but that she rose in a certain way 
above her grief, — or sank below it. 

Youth was strong within her, her self-hood 
a decidedly marked individuality ; she was by 
nature a bright, light-hearted, joyous creature ; 
and she found rosy joys dawning, flowers 
springing up in her pathway, even though she 
never again could gather roses without know- 
ing there were thorns on their stems ! 

It was leaving every association of home, 
and the dear familiar places and scenes that 
whispered of her father, that seemed to work 
this partial healing of Lisbeth’s sorrowing 
heart, — yet, while she glided on the appar- 
ently smooth waters of the new life that 
opened before her, she often wished when she 
had time to think, — as many a mourner has 
wished before, — that she had stayed bravely 


IN THE MIST. 


7 5 


in the place where the sorrow fell ; stayed and 
met, and perchance conquered the great lone- 
liness, the aching of her heart, by taking up 
and doing the simple duties that lay about 
her; by rendering kindly ministries to the 
fisher-folk, and the many little “ love-services ” 
that are open to all who seek them. 

For though her sorrow seemed overlaid by 
the new scenes and pleasures that surrounded 
her, she did not really forget it, any more 
than she forgot the earnest life-problems, 
pleading for answers. The questions, which 
always found utterance when she was with 
those whose companionship stirred the deeper, 
better part of her nature. The questions, 
that, like her grief, naught could really silence 
and soothe, save the Voice of Him, the Christ, 
who alone can say to sin, doubt, or sorrow- 
tossed hearts, “ Peace be still.” 

During all that time (for we have antici- 
pated months, to which we must return if 
we would follow Lisbeth’s story step by step 
of the way) in her heart life’s pattern was 
being wrought in a wonderful tracery of 


IN THE MIST. 


76 

mingled light and shade ; a delicate etching, 
like the light and shadow poems, that the 
frost-king so skillfully traces in pictures made 
of chilly mist, and fog touched by the breath 
of the north wind. 

Could it be, the doubts and sorrows of 
Lisbeth’s life would become fair pictures too? 
— In the Mist now, would she come out into 
the sunshine at last? — 

Flowers were wrought in that life-pattern 
too, sweet fragrant blossoms, wooed by the 
kiss of the south wind, as truly as the frost, 
pictures were by the north. — For never yet 
was there a season, or a life, in which winds 
did riot blow, now southward, now northward. 
— Do the shadowy pictures of frost and cold, 
or the blossoms wooed by warmth and light, 
show the most of life and strength, true life 
and spiritual strength? 

We can not tell, — but, — God knows, — and 
“He sendeth forth His commandment, He 
causeth His wind to blow.” — 


XI. 



HEN a few weeks after Doctor Endi- 


* * cott’s death, Mr. Andrew Endicott 
had said : “ Will you return home with me, 
Lisbeth, and spend the rest of the summer 
and early autumn with your aunt and cousins 
at Endicott Manor?” — she had passively con- 
sented. In truth, she was too indifferent then 
to care much what she did or where she went, 
and though she saw Mrs. Blinn making ready 
for her departure, she felt no interest in it, 
and was but little consulted about the neces- 
sary arrangements, which were completed by 
the end of the month. 

Doctor Endicott had left a large property. 
The Endicotts were in all branches a wealthy 
family. Lisbeth was an heiress without really 
knowing the full meaning of the word. — Only 
a short time before her father s sudden death, 


( 77 ) 


IN THE MIST. 


78 

his already ample means had been increased 
by the coming into his possession of a large 
estate, that fell to him, and then to Lisbeth, 
as legal heirs to a distant cousin. 

It was law business connected with this 
property that had brought Mr. Gordon to 
G., and which necessitated his remaining 
after the Doctors death. — And being there, 
and a friend of his own, Mr. Andrew Endicott 
quite naturally placed in his care the settle- 
ment of Doctor Endicott’s estate. Thus, for 
the few weeks that intervened, after the com- 
ing of sorrow to Lisbeth and her home-leav- 
ing, she every day met Mr. Gordon, though 
sometimes it was only to exchange a brief 
greeting, and the few words her position as 
“lady of the house ” demanded. 

And, though he had so engrossed her 
thoughts for the hour following her first meet- 
ing with him, in her present state of mind she 
paid no heed to him, beyond an undefined 
sense of comfort that there was another step 
beside her uncle’s to be heard in the house, 
which seemed so cheerless, so desolate to. her, 


IN THE MIST 


79 

missing the dear presence that had made it 
home. 

She felt, too, an unrecognized, but real grati- 
tude that there was some one to talk to her 
uncle during the long twilights of the late 
June and the early July days. — Some one to 
break the stillness of the daily routine of 
breakfast, dinner, and tea that had to be gone 
through with, and at which Lisbeth insisted 
on presiding ; for it never occurred to her to 
let her sorrow be an excuse for relinquishing 
this hard duty that used to be such a pleasure. 

And yet, she never took her seat at the 
table and faced her father’s vacant place with- 
out a sudden chill about her heart, an almost 
faintness, followed by a thrill of pain, — worse 
than any physical pain. 

But, while Lisbeth was thus indifferent to 
Alexander Gordon, every passing day his in- 
terest in her was deepening. Somehow the 
first sight of her had strangely stirred his heart, 
which, in the security of his more than thirty 
years, he thought impervious to the charm of 
a maiden, however fair. 


8o 


IN THE MIST. 


This interest, which might under ordinary- 
circumstances have proved a mere passing 
emotion, hrd been strengthened by the pe- 
culiar character of their intercourse, — the fact 
that he, a stranger, should have been the one 
to tell the girl of her father’s death, moved 
him strongly ; and that afterward, with no fore- 
planning design of his own, he should be with 
her during the days which immediately fol- 
lowed her grief. — When, though she was so 
unlike her former bright self, she was still 
lovely as she dreamily moved about with a 
look of plaintive sorrow on her fair face, — sor- 
row that asked no sympathy, and yet by the 
not asking, won it all the more. 

He did not say to himself that he was learn- 
ing to love her, perhaps at first he hardly knew 
it. But he did know that he never looked at 
her without feeling a wish in his heart that he 
were a better man, without remembering cer- 
tain chapters in his past, and wishing he could 
blot them out. — Why ? — just because he would 
fain, as is ever the way with true love, have 
had his own heart pure as the heart of this 


IN THE MIST. 


8l 

guileless girl, — for love always seeks to be- 
come what it thinks the loved one is. 

In his thoughts of Lisbeth, Alexander Gor- 
don endowed her with “ all the sweetnesses 
she had, and all he thought she had.” — And 
though, we repeat, he did not say even to 
himself that he loved her, love yet found en- 
trance into his heart at a thousand points 
which he did not suspect. 

It even went beyond its own purpose, till 
Lisbeth, who was so unconscious of it all, 
came to fill his thoughts like the sunshine that 
falls with no cloud between on open meadow 
or broad plain. 

And, as she became to him all this, he grew 
more noble, — though he had always been a 
true, noble-hearted man, — the little outer 
manner of society’s superficial touch that Lis- 
beth had recognized in the smile, which she 
had called a thing of the surface, was only an 
outer manner, not in truth a reflex of his real 
self. — Still, there was room for him to grow 
more earnest in thought and deed, — and he 
6 


82 


IN THE MIST. 


did, — striving to become what he felt would 
be her ideal. 

He knew she did not care for him, but he 
was content, he was not young, he had 
learned something of patience, and there was 
no one to rival him, — and that is such a se- 
cret of a man’s content — and he felt the pres- 
ent season of sorrow was no time to press 
upon hen aught more of his society, than the 
tacit expression of his sympathy and con- 
stant solicitude for her comfort involved. 

Then, too, he had not said to himself, “ I 
love her.” 

It was a new experience to Alexander Gor- 
don. An experience that made those four 
weeks that were so full of grief and bitterness 
to Lisbeth, sweet and beautiful to him, even 
though he did not ask himself why, till the 
evening preceding her departure. 

She had been down below the Cliff, to bid 
good-bye to a little fisher lad, whose life, like 
the tide at the hour of her farewell, was run- 
ning out fast toward the boundless sea, — a 


IN THE MIST. 


83 


little life soon to sail away. — Where ? This 
question was in Lisbeth’s heart when return- 
ing she met Mr. Gordon coming to meet her ; 
and for the time, — forgetting her own trouble 
in her sympathy for the sick lad and hie sor- 
rowing mother, — she was like her former self 
again as she looked up in her old confiding, 
impulsive way, saying : 

“ Will you make it all plain for me ? 

There was so much of a child’s trust in 
Lisbeth’s nature, it took so long, such a weary 
deal of teaching, before she learned that there 
are so many questions, so much in life, no one 
can make plain for another. 

Mr. Gordon knew what she meant, for he 
had known her errand ; he knew, too. some- 
thing of the darkness of doubt, even in her 
father’s God, that had shrouded Lisbeth’s life 
for the past weeks, and yet he asked her : 

“ Make what plain ? ” 

It was so sweet to him to hearken to the 
words of this girl, 

“ Whose soul had risen as a flower 
Skyward in sunny hours ; ” 


8 4 


IN THE MIST. 


but who, at the touch of sorrow, had folded 
the leaves of her heart close as flower-leaves 
fold at sundown. 

A faint hint, nothing more than a hint of a 
smile flitted for a moment across Lisbeth’s 
face as she replied : 

“Tell me why my plants grow so much 
faster, yield so much richer harvest of blos- 
soms, the more I gather their flowers, just as 
the vines and trees bear so much fairer fruit 
when their branches are pruned and cut 
away.” 

And, without waiting for an answer, after 
her old fashion of dropping one thought to 
take up another, she added : 

“ Do you think it hurts the little flowers to 
be broken from the plant, to be carried into 
close rooms, away from the sunshine and sum- 
mer breezes? You know the poet, the man 
who put his finger on nature’s heart, sang — 


Tis my faith that every flower 
Enjoys the air it breathes. 


IN THE MIST. 


85 


The budding- twigs spread out their fan, 

To catch the breezy air, 

And I must think, do all I can, 

That there was pleasure there ; ' 

and surely, if they can feel pleasure, they 
must feel pain too.” 

And then Lisbeth murmured, half as though 
speaking to herself : 

\| “ I wonder do hearts, like the flowers, grow 

sweeter and fuller of beauty the more they are 
hurt, or disciplined as Mrs. Blinn would say;” 
and again she lifted her eyes, full of eager 
questioning, up to Mr. Gordon, repeating, 
“ Tell me, is this why there is so much trouble 
in the world ? ” — 

But it was not Alexander Gordon who re- 
plied, but Mr. Grant, the village pastor, who 
unobserved had joined them. — His answer 
was the quoted words : 

“ Even the branch that bears fruit is pruned 
by the great vine-dresser that it may bring 
forth more fruit. — Suffering is necessary to 
make Jesus of use to us, just as Jesus is neces- 
sary to make suffering of use.” 


86 


IN THE MIST. 


And, — then they reached the garden-gate, 
where Mr. Andrew Endicott was awaiting 
their coming, and quietly as the moon-beams 
fell on the flower borders, Lisbeth slipped 
away, yet not so quietly but that Mr. Gordon 
knew that she had gone. 


XII. 


^T^HE morning following her talk with Mr. 

Gordon, Lisbeth, — though it was the 
day of her home-leaving, — woke with a calm- 
ness in her heart, that was like the calm she 
had felt during one hour, only one, of her day 
and night vigil by her dead father’s side ; she 
woke in 

“ That blessed mood. 

In which the burthen of the mystery, 

In which the heavy and the weary weight, 

Of all this unintelligible word 
Is lifted.” 

Something gentle as the kiss with which a 
mother wakens a child, seemed to shut rebel- 
lious thoughts out of her heart for a brief 
time. 

Perhaps it was the sweet peculiar freshness 
of the early day ; the blue sky beyond the 
window, and beyond the gently swaying 

(87) 


88 


IN THE MIST. 


branches of the ash ; the chirping of birds as 
they fluttered to and fro from bough to 
bough ; the faint sound of the sea waves, as 
they broke on the beach, — which all combined 
to bring to her tender memories, free from 
bitterness, of the happiness that till her 
father’s death, had ever surrounded her. She 
rose hastily and went down-stairs ; the front 
door was open, and she passed out through 
the garden down to the cliff, just as she had 
done on her birthday morning. 

The dew was sparkling on every grass-blade 
and flower, as it did then ; there was a breezy 
freshness in the air, and yet a transparent 
haze. The hills far off westward, were tinted 
with a mystic blue, while the stretch of coun- 
try between, was full of the deep rich colors 
which belong to early morning. 

Looking westward, the view was bright and 
glowing, but eastward, heavy clouds were 
rising over the sea, rosy-tinged clouds, and 
yet, “ there is a storm back of their beauty,” 
Lisbeth whispered to herself ; for from a child 
she had known when the mist crept over the 


IN THE MIST \ 


89 

sea in billowy wave-like drifts of white haze, 
that rolled on and above the horizon in 
clouds that hid the sky, and stretched before 
the sun, it always told of a coming storm; — 
but it had never ceased to be a mystery to 
her, that a bright morning should ever mean 
a stormy day. Does v it ever cease to be a 
mystery to any of us ? 

The sea waves looked gray and sad, as 
though they knew what was coming ; only 
one white sail broke the wide expanse of 
water, and that a far-off sail. — The cottages 
of the fishermen were still in shadow, their 
boats moored, their nets spread out on the 
low-lying shore. 

“ Westward, all so calm, and still, and 
bright. Eastward, everything gray and 
shadowed, waiting for the touch of sunshine 
to flash them into life,” Lisbeth said ; “ it is 
like myself, in the East still, — but in the 
shadow, — waiting for the sun to shine, — and, 
it will not to-day.” 

Did she realize the deep significance of her 
words? No, not any more than she under- 


90 


IN THE MIST. 


stood why the western hills caught the sun- 
light back of the clouds, while the eastern 
horizon, from behind which the sun had just 
risen, was mist-enveloped. 

There was no bitterness in her tone as she 
spoke ; she thought herself alone, and yet she 
was not startled, when she felt a hand laid 
gently on her bowed head. She was sitting 
on the cliff, with her elbows resting on her 
knees, and her face on her hands, looking out 
upon the sea. 

It was Mr. Grant who had joined her ; there 
had been sore trouble during the night, in the 
fisherman’s home, where Lisbeth had bade 
farewell to the little lad, and the minister was 
returning from an errand of mercy and con- 
solation. 

He longed to speak some word of comfort 
and counsel to Lisbeth, before she went away, 
and yet, what word of his could equal the 
soothing whisper of that early hour of the 
day. 

Still, he sat down by her, and knowing 
Lisbeth, as he had done all his life, he talked 


IN FHE MIST. 


91 


to her, not as though he were formally warn- 
ing, and preparing her for the new scenes, and 
unknown home, and relatives to whom she 
was going; but, as though he were speaking 
with her, half in parable, and half not, as had 
been his wont from her childhood. 

“ Did you ever think,” he asked, “ why the 
ships on the broad open sea need no pilot?” 

And Lisbeth shook her head in reply, as 
the old pastor, for he was an old man, he had 
known seventy winters and more of life, con- 
tinued : 

“ Mind, I say, no pilot, though they have a 
helmsman ; league and league they sail thus 
on the wide ocean without a pilot, but they 
dare not venture near the shore, dare not sail 
on the waters even of the placid river, with- 
out him, fearing wreck from hidden rock, or 
strand from unseen sand-bar or reef. — And, it 
is much the same in life, my child ; we are all 
like the ships sailing on the ocean, learning 
every day that it is in ‘ the small, secret every- 
day acts of life, that we most need conscience 
to warn us to be aware of the hidden shoals 


IN THE MIST. 


9 2 

of what we deem too common to be dan- 
gerous.’ ” 

But, it was not counsel that Lisbeth wanted, 
even though so gently given, and scarcely 
seeming to heed Mr. Grant’s words, she looked 
up at him eagerly, as she had done the even- 
ing before to Mr. Gordon, asking much the 
same question she had asked then ; and as 
then, not waiting for a reply, but letting 
query follow query swiftly as birds wing their 
way from tree top to tree top, queries, that 
were all enfolded in the egotism of one 
unlearned in sorrow, and prefaced by the 
why , which is the key-note of rebellion ; all 
commonplace too, and yet none the less 
puzzling. 

“ Why, if God were Love, had He taken 
her father from her? Why all in a minute, 
had He sent grief in place of gladness into 
her life? Why had the dark thunder-cloud 
of trouble broken above her, and the light- 
ning flash of sorrow revealed, while she was 
still so young, that her grief was but a sigh, 
out of the groan of sufferings and partings, 


IN THE MIST. 


93 


that were ever rending human hearts ? Why 
were sorrows ordained ? Suffering permitted ? 
Why must the touch of change and death 
fall on everything? What of the Afterward 
to it all, the wide, vague, silent unknown? It 
was all so strange, so confusing.” 

As Lisbeth gave utterance to these 
thoughts, the old bitterness came back, — 
she found Mr. Grant, too, as powerless to 
answer them, as she herself, and she turned 
from him impatiently, when he repeated the 
ordinary words of comfort. 

“ It is the Lord’s doing ; bow in humble 
submission to His will, Lisbeth, and what you 
know not now, you shall know hereafter.” 

Even the tender words, “ Whom the Lord 
loveth He chasteneth,” were dull and empty 
to her, which was not strange, for, — till they 
are faith-illumined, what words are harder 
to understand ? — 

Almost petulantly she exclaimed : 

“ No, no, that is not the answer I want 
I want to know the why, — the meaning of 
it all?” 


94 


IN THE MIST. 


“ But, child, you never can know that,” 
the minister gently said, and he stood be- 
wildered, as Lisbeth rose hastily, her con- 
fiding manner giving place to the cold reserve 
of the last few weeks, as she extended her 
hand, saying, as though he were quite a 
stranger : 

“ Good-bye, Mr. Grant ; I am going away 
to-day,” and scarcely waiting for his farewell, 
she turned homeward, repeating to herself, 
“Yes, going away, — going away ! ” — 


<1 


XIII. 

I N the garden, Lisbeth met Mrs. Blinn, 
who said, “ I came to meet you, dear, and 
I brought you this ; your uncle Andrew found 
it in among your father’s papers, and seeing 
it was of no use for business reference, he 
tossed it on one side; but somehow, I thought 
being in your father’s own handwriting, you 
would like it. — In the same division of the 
note-book was this too.” 

And Mrs. Blinn led Lisbeth within the 
shelter of a vine-covered arbor, as she handed 
her the worthless things, that yet were so 
precious to the young girl. 

The one, a copy of verses, the other, a tiny 
folded paper, yellowed with age, and worn at 
the edges, as though from frequent opening. 
There was nothing in it but a lock of soft 
shiny brown hair, — her mother’s, — Lisbeth 

( 95 ) 


IN THE MIST . 


96 

knew. — “ Read the verses now if you like,*’ 
said kindly Mrs. Blinn, whose love instinct- 
ively felt they might be comforting, — “ but 
mind you come, my dear,” she added, 4< when 
the breakfast-bell rings, for you will be leav- 
ing soon afterward.” 

And Mrs. Blinn turned hastily away, to 
hide her quickly-falling tears. 

So Lisbeth was left alone, holding in her 
hand the lock of her mother’s hair, and the 
lines copied by her father soon after her 
mother’s death ; her first glance revealed this. 

I. 

“ O weary days and nights, so still, so still, — 

The useless sails hang flapping stiff and slow ; 

We pine and chafe, and set our helpless will 
In vain revolt at what to change. To know 
Is not for us. We hear the strong winds blow 
And fret as in the east, the west, we see 
Great ships and small go sliding fast and free. 

II. 

“ O fearful days and nights, so dark, so cold, — 

The swift waves mock and leap on every side ; 

No rudder steers ; no mast, no spar, can hold ; 

We think no ear could hear us if we cried : 

We think God would not miss us if we died ; 


97 


IN THE MIST. 

We feel forgotten, helpless, cast away ; 

We shut our eyes and do not even pray. 

III. 

“ O peaceful days, and peaceful nights whose peace 
Can not be uttered ! O green shores of life 
Beyond the body ! Shall we ever cease 

To smile that through such hot and silly strife 
We came ? That doubts and fears could grow so rife? 
That we could fail to see how God’s good hand 
Our anchorings and our driftings planned?” — 


Simple verses, but soothing to Lisbeth, 
seeming in a certain way, like an echo of her 
own heart-ache, giving utterance to her own 
heart’s cry, all but the last. — 

“ But perhaps some day I will come to that 
knowledge too,” she said. 

And she felt quieted, as one is quieted by 
low notes of far-off music. She was so much 
of a child too, spite the ageing touch of sor- 
row that had fallen on her, that “ with the 
instinct of a child’s heart, which is sometimes 
truer than all logic,” she straightway grasped 
that last verse, as a sort of promise ; a sweet 
assurance, that for her father, all perplexing 
7 


9 8 IN THE mist. 

questions were at an end ; all was peace and 
gladness now. 

Thus it happened, that the bit of paper, 
which Mr. Andrew Endicott had tossed on 
one side, was wafted to Lisbeth, — wafted, 
shall we not believe, by one of the 

0 “ Angels who wait on providence. 

And mark the sundered places, 

To graft with gentlest influences 
The heavenly graces ? ” 

The clouds gathered so swiftly that morn- 
ing, when Lisbeth left the arbor, — summoned 
by the ringing of the breakfast-bell, — rain was 
already beginning to fall, softly, slowly, and 
yet the music of the pattering drops on the 
leaves, was distinctly audible. 

“It will be as I thought,” she said, “a 
long, long, rainy day.” 

And she was glad ; it seemed easier to go 
away when everything was clothed in a sober 
light ; easier to have the sky dull and leaden 
with clouds, rather than blue and bright with 
sunshine ; and the storm was nothing then in 


IN THE MIST. 


99 

violence, but passive, and quiet, like her 
mood. 

It poured steadily an hour later, when the 
farewells were said, when Lisbeth parted from 
Mrs. Blinn, and bade good-bye to the weeping 
servants. 

A storm, that by mid-day had so increased, 
that the wind was sighing in fitful gusts 
through the boughs of the old ash, and toss- 
ing the sea waters into foam-crested waves, 
that broke against the cliff with a dreary, 
moan-like cadence. — But, — only Mrs. Blinn 
looked out from the library window on the 
fury of the storm, — only Mrs. Blinn heard 
the sighing of the wind, the moaning of the 
waves. Lisbeth was far away then, swiftly 
speeding across a broad stretch of miles. 


XIV. 

T HAT day’s journey was to Lisbeth, 
when she afterward tried to recall it, 
as much a blank in the matter of detail, as 
the weeks immediately preceding. 

Their way led inland, and all through the 
day, they kept on the outskirts of the storm, 
for though rain fell, it was quietly ; there was 
no wildness, like that Mrs. Blinn watched 
from the old library window. 

For an hour or two Mr. Gordon was their 
companion, and both he and Mr. Andrew 
Endicott made every effort to divert Lisbeth. 
— But, though only a month before, she would 
have been so eagerly interested in all about 
her, she was now so listless and indifferent, 
that her uncle soon relaxed his efforts, and 
after Mr. Gordon left them, became absorbed 
in a budget of papers and magazines. 

Lisbeth was glad, she wanted to be quiet ; 

(ioo) 


IN THE MIST. 


IOI 


she had an instinctive feeling, that that day 
was to her, like a bridge leading from one life 
into another, — and though she was a brave- 
hearted girl, she trembled at the crossing; 
she would fain have stayed when the time 
came to leave it, on the shore she knew ; fain 
have lingered in the land that encompassed 
her childhood’s world. 

There was nothing of sickly sentimentality 
in her nature ; but till her father’s death, she 
had been such a child of song and sunshine, 
she could not let go of her happy past with- 
out making 'for it a “ little grave in her heart,” 
a place to embalm with the odor of by-gone 
gladness, and the echo of forever silent joys. 

But it was still the spring-time of life to 
her, and so it was a spring-time heart-grave. 

As she sat so quietly by her uncle’s side, 
weaving her own fancies, she was ignorant as 
a child of the tender custom of the ancients ; 
who buried their dead in the morning twilight, 
rather than at nightfall, striving to believe 
that Aurora had stolen them to her embrace 
in the dawn ; that through the heat of the 


102 


IN THE MIST. 


day, and the darkness of the night, they 
might let fall from the blue sky flowers to 
the weary earth-dwellers. 

Ignorant as a child of this custom ; and yet 
in converse with her heart, she acted as 
though she knew it well, burying her first 
grief while it was still morning to her. 

And, because she had been soothed by 
reading the verses copied by her father, which 
seemed to assure her that he knew all about 
what was so dark to her ; for the time she had 
an unquestioning faith, that out of his happi- 
ness, he would let fall stray seeds of knowl- 
edge for her, — his child. 

Thinking and feeling thus, the long hours 
of that day’s journey were peaceful ; she even 
whispered to herself : — “ Perhaps I will know 
gladness again when I am used to it all, per- 
haps I will ; ” and something like a smile for a 
moment flitted across Lisbeth’s face, though 
her eyes were dim with tears. 

It was quite dark when they reached the 
city ; the noise and confusion of the crowded 
depot bewildered the country-reared girl, but 


IN THE MIST. 


103 

they only lingered from the arrival of one 
train to the departure of the next. 

The clouds had broken toward sunset ; and 
now and then, broad beams of moonlight 
gleamed through the rifts, revealing to Lis- 
beth that their way lay by the shore of a 
broad river, edged by highlands, covered by 
dense forests. — Often the train darted into 
darkness, as though seeking the very heart of 
the night, — or the hills, — and the harsh rever- 
beration of echoing sound, told her they were 
passing through rock-walled passages ; but 
before she had time to feel a fear, they were 
out again by the river’s side, where the fitful 
moonlight fell on the wavelets in shining 
gleams ; like silvery shadows of fleecy clouds, 
that reminded her of smiles and happy 
thoughts, playing over the faces of little 
children. 

Once, when for thirty miles or more, their 
way was off from the river’s shore, the moon- 
light fell on a still lake, the waters of which 
were half hidden by great patches of dark 
leaves, shining here and there with snow- 


104 


IN THE MIST. 


white lily-buds, that in the moonlight, looked 
like gleam of precious gems. 

It seemed to Lisbeth as she watched the 
fitful changes of light and shadow, as though 
she were gliding through some dream-land ; or 
living in the pages of her best-loved books of 
fancy and fable; and so, bounded by the sense 
of reality, which was yet unreality, the hours 
sped on till they neared midnight. 

It was quite midnight when the train 
slackened its speed, and Mr. Andrew Endi- 
cott exclaimed : “ Home at last ! ” 

Lisbeth started, with a thrill half of fear 
and half of regret ; a minute later, she was 
standing on the broad platform, watching the 
long train glide out into the darkness, and 
hearing a confused sound of questions and 
answers. And then, her uncle had said, 
4< Come,” and in another second, with a sharp 
click the carriage door closed, and they too, 
were out in the darkness once more, in a still- 
ness unbroken now, save by the rumbling of 
the wheels over the gravelly road ; a darkness 
unrelieved, — for the moon had set, — except 


IN THE MIST. I0 5 

as the carriage lamps let fall a sickly gleam 
on bank side, tree, and bush. 

An hour’s drive ; and then a sudden turn, — 
a swift passing through a wide open gate ; a 
broad background of glowing light, framing 
in an open doorway, and the slender figure 
of a graceful lady awaiting their coming. 

This was what Lisbeth saw, and all the 
time she had a sense of being outside of it 
all, as though she were watching some one 
else, and not herself making a part of the 
scene, — a sense of unreality, that did not 
vanish at her aunt Mrs. Endicott’s kindly 
greeting; for as Lisbeth gazed about her, 
everything was so aglow with warmth and 
brightness, it seemed coming in from the 
darkness and chill of midnight, like some 
fairy palace. 

The very supper-table, laden with dainties 
for the tired travelers, was all a-glitter with 
silver and glass ; but of this, as of all beside, 
she was only dimly conscious, just as she was 
of presently being guided up a spacious stair- 
way to a stately room, — so unlike her own 


io 6 


IN THE MIST. 


room at home, — and there she was left alone 
at last. — Alone, to realize the strangeness of 
her surroundings, no longer with a dim con- 
sciousness, but with a great heart-ache bring- 
ing the by-gone weeks to her memory, and 
waking a wild yearning for her father, — a 
longing to go back, — back to Mrs. Blinn and 
the dear familiar life. 

“ But I can not, — I can not,” she sobbed 
aloud. 

Yet, spite her tears, and heart-ache, no 
sooner did her head touch the pillow, than 
she fell asleep, not to wake till morning was 
well-nigh noon. 

This was how Elizabeth Endicott crossed 
the bridge, dividing her old life from her new. 


XV. 


L ISBETH had always been surrounded 
with evidences of ease and luxury, but 
she was quite unprepared for the elegance 
and lavish adornment of her Uncle Andrew’s 
summer home, which as she afterward found, 
was a mere echo of his city residence. 

Brought up in a New England town, where 
something of the old Puritan spirit still held 
a controlling sway over extravagant expend- 
iture; she had been used to homes like her 
own, abounding in every comfort ; perfect 
treasure-houses in substantial, heavily-carved 
furniture, and quaint heirlooms of antique 
china, and ancestral portraits ; but she was a 
novice in the studied elegance in choice of 
form and coloring, that meant so much to her 
aunt, Mrs. Endicott. 

She was conscious, the morning after her 
arrival, of the pervading unlikeness of her 

(i°7) 


io8 


IN THE MIST. 


present surroundings to her past, even before 
she went down-stairs. 

An exterior, as well as interior unlikeness ; 
for looking from one, and then another win- 
dow in her room, the whole scene was as 
unfamiliar to her, as if she had awoke in a 
new world, — and verily she had ! 

Even the sunshine seemed different, as she 
thought of the farm-lands at home, where 
such a morning of sunlight and glow, would 
have meant ripening of grain and fruits ; while 
here, its only task seemed to be to fall on all 
growing things, in a blaze and brilliancy of 
brightness, that seemed to mean, not work, 
but pleasure, it was so lavish, so extravagant. 

The soft green grass of the lawn, was a 
wonder to her too, as it stretched down to a 
narrow brooklet, that served as a dividing 
line, from a grove of stately trees, to which a 
rustic bridge led. 

From the other window, she had a view of 
the garden, with its gay parterres, bright 
with rare flowers, its sparkling fountains, and 
clumps of rich foliage of shrub, and plant. 


IN THE MIST. 


IO9 

It was a fair scene to look upon, all glad in 
the sunlight, and music-full, for beside the 
pattering of the sprayey water-drops, birds, 
whole families of them, were jubilant with 
songs of gladness. 

Everything Lisbeth’s eye rested upon, was 
in harmony ; no rude sign of wind or storm, 
no wild tangle of flowers in sweet confusion, 
as in the garden at home, but all telling of 
careful order, and finish, and yet, she turned 
from the window with a sigh for a look at 
the dancing sea-waves, the rugged pines, the 
dark unchanging trees, and her own “whis- 
pering ash.” 

“ No iio,” she said to herself, “ I never, 
never can love this world of wondrous beauty 
as I do my home by the sea.” 

Then a gentle tap sounded at her door, a 
rustling of silk, and a light footfall crossed 
the room, and Lisbeth turned, to greet her 
aunt, Mrs. Endicott. 

Together they descended to the breakfast 
room, where though it was high noon, her 
cousins still lingered awaiting her coming ; — 


IIO 


IN THE MIST. 


Ethel, Fanny, and Lucille, the darling of the 
household. — The two former were brilliant 
brunettes, elegant girls, fresh from the finish 
of a fashionable boarding-school; Ethel, a 
year older than Lisbeth, and Fanny a few 
months younger; as for Lucille, she was a 
fairy-like little creature, still young enough to 
be much in the nursery, and yet old enough 
to be an entertaining companion, with her 
quaint, wise, child-like speeches, a merry- 
hearted child, a bit willful, but affectionate 
withal. 

From the moment of Lisbeth’s entrance, 
Lucille was captivated by the charms of this 
new cousin. 

“ She is not at all like you, and Fanny,” 
she whispered to Ethel, with a child’s uncon- 
sciousness of implied disparagement. 

And certainly, as Lisbeth stood in the 
open doorway, and then advanced with her 
swift, yet graceful motion ; her tall, slender, 
girlish figure, robed in the clinging drapery 
of mourning, relieved by no ornament save a 
golden star, that fastened the narrow band of 


IN THE MIST. 


Ill 


white that encircled her throat, she was a 
striking contrast to her cousins, in their airy 
summer costumes, of\ lavender and white, 
ruffle and puff, that they were wearing out of 
respect to Dr. Endicott’s memory, — “ compli- 
mentary mourning,” they called it ! 

Mrs. Endicott too wore a garment indicat- 
ing “ affliction in' the family,” — a mourning 
robe, of black silk, relieved by bows and 
knots of gauzy purple ribbons, of shades vary- 
ing from light to dark ; that somehow, with 
an odd sense of the inappropriateness of the 
thought, seemed to Lisbeth, like butterflies’ 
wings, or pansy flowers, with their bright 
yellow leaves not gone, but only put out of 
sight for a while, by the overlapping of the 
violet. 

It did not take more than a moment for 
Lisbeth, — she had always been so quick to 
receive impressions, — to divine that in the 
matter of dress and manners ; and later, she 
found in the choice of books and music, she 
would be almost as unfamiliar with her 
cousins’ world, as she was with the outer scene 


1 1 2 


IN THE MIST. 


of close-cut lawn, instead of meadow grass, 
costly and tropical flowers, in place of blos- 
soms as free as the air. 

“ We will call you Lisette,” her cousin 
Ethel said, and musically sounded the name, 
uttered in her clear, modulated tone. 

Elizabeth was glad they chose that title 
rather than Lisbeth, or Lily-bell, her home, 
and her father’s names for her. 

The days sped away rapidly, broken by 
pleasant talk, and gentle courteous recog- 
nition of Lisbeth’s recent loss. — She was 
much diverted, too, by the beauty of the 
grounds, and being entirely free from self- 
consciousness, she was not oppressed by any 
painful sense of timidity, — still, she never 
for a moment lost the feeling, that she and 
her cousins, had read the story of life, as far 
as they had turned its pages, from a different 
book. 


XVI. 


TOURING the summer weeks that fol- 
lowed, Mrs. Endicott and her daughters 
were unwearying in their efforts to divert Lis- 
beth from dwelling on her sorrow, and in a 
certain way they succeeded. Birds of pleas- 
ure themselves, they naturally devised every 
enjoyment, which to them seemed fullest of 
song; and no entertainment that was admis- 
sible, under society’s prescribed code for 
mourners, did they leave untried. 

Most of the time Endicott Manor was 
thronged with a gay company of changing 
visitors, while every recurring Saturday, 
brought two or more of Mr. and Mrs. Endi- 
cott’s gentlemen acquaintances from the city ; 
for a Sabbath in the country. 

Among the most frequent of these guests, 
was Mr. Gordon, and his friend, Sylvester Ing- 
ham. Two men, who seemed to contradict 
8 (i 13) 


IN THE MIST. 


1 14 

the truth of the old proverb : “ A man is 
known by the company he keeps,” at least if 
it indicates a similarity of character between 
companions; for though Sylvester Ingham 
and Mr. Gordon had known each other from 
boyhood, they were as unlike as Lisbeth and 
her cousin Ethel. 

Their first visit after Lisbeth’s arrival at the 
Manor occurred on the following Saturday; 
she did not know Mr. Gordon was expected ; 
and late in the day, with little Lucille for her 
companion, she went into the garden, where 
her delight over the rare unknown blossoms 
was unbounded. “ It is so unlike my garden 
at home,” she said, — and she laughed, — this 
girl, who had wept so bitterly only so short 
a time before, — as she thought of her nodding 
roses finding a place amid the royal beauties 
of the stately rose-garden through which they 
were walking. — And then they wandered on, 
down to the brooklet, and Lisbeth told the 
child of her home by the sea ; a story Lucille 
never wearied of, and which was not ended 
when her nurse came to call her, for the 


IN THE MIST. 


H5 

summer twilight was already beginning to 
gather. 

As she obeyed the summons, little Lucille 
exclaimed, gaily : 

“ You know I must go to sleep when the 
birdies do, if I would have a song for to-mor- 
row.” 

And as she parted from Lisbeth on the 
door-step, she clasped her little arms about 
her fondly; thus when Lisbeth entered the 
drawing-room a minute latter, there was a 
smile on her lips, where still lingered the 
touch of the child’s good-night kiss. 

The light was shadowy, though the curtains 
were drawn wide to let in the gentle evening 
breeze. 

Lisbeth started as she advanced, for a 
figure stood before the west window, sharply 
defined against the background of violet and 
rosy light, that had not faded from the sky 
since sunset. 

It was Mr. Gordon, and in a moment, her 
hands so warm before, were cold and trem- 
bling, the smile gone from her face, as he 


ii 6 


IN THE MIST. 


came forward to meet her; for like a wave 
borne landward on incoming tide, the sight of 
him brought over her a longing for home, — 
and her father. A longing, which had been 
somewhat hushed the last few days, — and yet, 
an hour later she was talking quietly with him ; 
she was again amused and diverted by the new 
scene around her. 

It was all like a picture to her, as it had 
been on the night of her arrival. — A picture, 
in which she little dreamed how large a part 
she made, for Alexander Gordon was not the 
only one, who for long kept in his memory a 
picture of Lisbeth that summer evening. — 
Sylvester Ingham, too, never quite fdrgot 
how she looked then. 

Sylvester Ingham ! the dark-haired, bril- 
liant man, who talked the evening long to 
Ethel, and who yet, well-nigh all the time 
watched Lisbeth, who was so unconscious of 

his gaze. Poor child, — or ignorant child, 

— shall we call her? — 


XVII. 


FTER that, there was scarcely a Saturday 



all the summer long, that the “ two 
friends,” as Ethel merrily called them, did not 
accept Mr. Endicott’s cordial invitation to 
make a “ weekly visit.” 

Lisbeth was always pleased at their com- 
ing, — more and more pleased as time went 
on. For while the presence of Mr. Gordon 
brought to her memories of the day when 
first they met, the day that sometimes seemed 
so far away, the day so short, and yet, that 
had held so much ; it was almost a comfort to 
have anything come, and bring back to her 
heart for a brief time, — and it was only for 
that, — even the bitter pain of that day, for it 
hurt her sorely to find what she knew was the 
truth ; that sometimes she had almost to 
make an effort to keep fresh in her mind the 
sorrow, that at first she had felt she could 


(i 1 7) 


u8 IN THE MIST. 

never lose even for a moment out of her 
thoughts. It was not that the love for her 
father was any less ; not that she forgot him, 
but simply that the present pleasures and 
diversions were doing just what Mrs. Endicott 
intended they should, overlaying grief, and 
silencing sorrow, because leaving no time for 
its voice to be heard. Over and over Lisbeth 
wondered how she could smile, how she could 
be amused, when only such a little while ago, 
— such a little while ! — 

Was she heartless ? — Why was she so con- 
tradictory to herself? — 

She had no knowledge of human nature to 
help her solve the mystery, no knowledge of 
grief and its workings in other hearts, no 
knowledge, that sorrow is commonplace in 
this, that while it wounds, and leaves a scar, 
yet like the pains that rack our bodies, and 
leave their marks in bowed, wasted figures, 
and whitened hair, we somehow become used 
to the sight of our altered selves ; we do 
not tremble and shut our eyes from the re- 
flecting mirror, as we did at first; just as we 


IN THE MIST. 


Il 9 

somehow become used to our troubles, and 
to carrying them in our hearts, though we 
are not looking at them all the time, as we 
did at first, are not always conscious of their 
presence, — and, — Is not this well ? — Is it not 
one of the tenderest of the tender mercies 
of Him, who “ pitieth like as a father pitieth 
his children ? ” 

With Elizabeth Endicott it was peculiarly 
natural that this should be so ; she was in per- 
fect health, and at the very age wont to be 
the brightest, and most care-free in a girl’s 
life; thus though for a time she had been 
crushed, with returning sunshine, like a flower 
she sprang up again into bloom. 

A bloom, more lovely even and attractive, 
than the full joyousness of her past ; for a 
plaintive tenderness, born of sorrow, still 
hovered about her as she moved in her cling- 
ing garments of black, like a soft shadow, 
among her aunt and cousins’ gaily-robed 
guests. 

A maiden, veiled with the shadowy mys- 
tery of something kept in reserve, something 


120 


IN THE MIST. 


more lovely even than the visible, just asThe 
golden mists of a midsummer’s day, by their 
half revealing, half concealing, add to the 
beauty of the scene. 

If sometimes in the by-gone days, Mrs. 
Blinn had thought Lisbeth too eager in her 
impetuousness, almost too gay in her merry 
flights of fancy, and song, it was not so now ; 
for her present gaiety was never more than a 
gentle playfulness of mood, or look, brief 
like a 

“ Swallow’s flight of song.” 

There was a wondrous charm about her those 
days, that not only Mr. Gordon felt, but that 
fascinated Sylvester Ingham too, and that 
made them both seek her society with ke£n 
enjoyment. — Fresh from the turmoil and 
strife of the great city, talking with Lisbeth 
was to them like listening to the rippling 
music of a brooklet, where the waters were so 
clear, they revealed every pebble and tiny 
reef over which they played ; or like gazing 
on some calm lake, where only the blue 
sky was reflected. — She had, too, such a 


IN THE MIST. 


121 


decidedly marked individuality, she was so 
constantly varying in look and expression. 

Alexander Gordon knew the secret of this 
charm was, that in Lisbeth’s heart, innocence 
was still the queen as in the days of her child- 
hood. 

“ Innocence child-beloved, a guest from the world of 
the blessed.” 

And in his intercourse with her, he. rever- 
enced it. Sylvester Ingham knew it too, but 
there was this difference between the two 
men, he heeded it not. 

She interested him ; she gave a new zest to 
those summer days, — “days, when a man 
seeks amusement,” he said to himself, with a 
careless shrug of his shoulders, — the awaken- 
ing and responding of her bright intellect to 
new thoughts, under the subtle charm of his 
conversation, gratified him, — and, — what if 
as the weeks came and went, he saw her fair 
face grow rosy with the blush of happiness, 
a tender light come into her eyes at his 
approach. — What if he held her heart in his 


x 22 IN THE MIST. 

hand, as though it had been a flower? — 
Every day, hundreds of flowers were lightly 
plucked, — and let fall as lightly. 

What if as he watched the unfolding of her 
heart, which was lovely too, as the opening 
of a flower, he let drop into it seeds of 
thoughts, that full well he knew could take 
the fragrance out of flowers, — human flowers ! 

What if he did all this ! — he was too selfish 
to ask, — “ Was the gratification to himself 
worth it all ? ” too selfish to heed the answer, 
even if he heard it. 

Meanwhile, Lisbeth went on from week to 
week, leading the life her cousins led, and 
slowly becoming adapted to it, and to the 
thoughts Mr. Ingham suggested ; pushing 
away from her the recognition, that she was 
falling into the way of only seeking pleasure, 
that she was drifting all the time farther and 
farther away from the safe harbor of her 
father’s teachings ; drifting away, and reach- 
ing out no hand to stay her progress. — Only 
now and then, she said to herself, “ To- 
morrow I will find time to think.” — But when 


IN THE MIST. 


123 

the morrow came, it was still, “ To-morrow I 
will find time.” 

And so the days sped on, as summer days 
will, and Lisbeth was changing, with a change 
far more to be dreaded, than that which had 
troubled kindly Mrs. Blinn. 

What was she losing? — What was she 
gaining? — 


XVIII. 


WEEK among the near mountain 



x jL region that lay westward, beyond the 
opposite shores of the river, was to Lisbeth 
the crowning pleasure of that time devoted 
to pleasure-seeking. — She wandered amid the 
haunts near the hotel, with the same free- 
dom, with which she had wandered amid the 
rocks and cliffs overhanging the sea-beach at 
home. — Though she had ever loved color, 
and had so rare a skill in the use of brush and 
palette, she could not be induced to join her 
cousins and their friends, in their sketch-book 
efforts to catch and hold “ the color of moun- 
tain and sky, that is as intangible as the color 
of a dream.” 

“No,” Lisbeth said; “I want to take the 
beauty into my heart, not to catch it on can- 
vas, and if I did,” she added, “who would my 
picture be for? ” 


(124) 


IN THE MIST. 


125 


Gay voices answered: “For me, for me.” 
Alexander Gordon was the only one of the 
group who was silent ; he alone understood 
Lisbeth’s words; he alone divined the girl’s 
sudden heart-ache of loneliness for her father. 

Yet, as the momentary shadow passed from 
her face, Lisbeth did not turn to him ; but to 
Sylvester Ingham, as she said with a smile, 

though tears were still in her eyes : 

# 

“ Will you come with me up ? ” — and she 
pointed to a winding path leading to the 
summit of a mountain peak. 

A rugged path for tender feet to tread, 
sometimes overgrown with brambles, and shut 
in by a thick growth of underbrush and tan- 
gles of wild grape-vine, and knotted clusters 
of bittersweet. — But she did not mind the 
roughness of the way ! 

The freshness of the air, the sweet, resin- 
ous odor of pine and hemlock, were electrical 
to her, and she uttered bright thoughts that 
twinkled like stars amid her graver words, — 
though afterward, long afterward, when Syl- 
vester Ingham remembered that morning, he 


126 


IN THE MIST. 


felt the graver words were perhaps the most 
star-like after all. 

Suddenly she seemed to have lost the half- 
timidity which had marked her manner to- 
ward him, and she talked with a freedom that 
was like an echo of her old talks with her 
father. 

It was when they reached the summit of 
the peak that she said : 

“ Being up here, is something like being in 
heaven I think, the clouds seem all beneath 
us ; I wonder so what is hidden behind the 
sea of mist,” and she pointed downward to 
the snowy billows of fog that stretched lightly 
along the mountain’s base. 

And then, a quick change came over her 
face, as she leaned on her alpenstock, still 
looking at the mist, which was changing its 
billowy whiteness into vapor-like, “ blue- 
black clouds,” that floated up till they melted 
into the blue of the sky above, while waves 
of it went surging through the mountain 
passes, clinging to the higher cliffs and the 
great pines. — The giant trees, that had so 


IN THE MIST. 


127 


bravely stood the wild blast of many a win- 
ter’s storm, and that lifted their evergreen 
branches out from the shadows of the mist, 
like arms, reaching up, seeking help from 
above. 

“ It is like life, — like life,” softly Lisbeth 
whispered, only half knowing the meaning of 
the words. 

Sylvester Ingham let her look as long as 
she wanted, and when at last he spoke, it was 
only to lead her on to speech ; for man of the 
world though he was, it was sweet to him to 
hearken to her innocent thoughts, uttered in 
a tone so soft and musical. 

“ Do you ever think,” he said, “ of the lan- 
guage of these mountain peaks, it is as 
various as the notes of a maiden’s song? ” 

Laughingly, Lisbeth answered : 

“You mean they are roseate at sunrise; 
blue, far-away blue at noon-time ; pale and 
silvery in the moonshine. — What are they at 
night, Mr. Ingham, when it is dark, all dark, 
what is their language then ; I think I know 
their morning, noon-time, and moonlight whis- 


128 


IN THE MIST . . 


pers ; but what do they say in the dark night ; 
interpret for me : 

“ ‘ The silence that is in the starry sky then, 

The sleep that is among the lonely hills ? * ” 

And softly, as though speaking to herself, and 
not to him, she continued : 

“ When night falls among the mountains, it 
gives me such a sense of rest and peace; it 
comforts me, seeming like the soothing, 
caressing touch of my father’s hand.” 

Words, that had she addressed them to 
Sylvester Ingham, he could not have an- 
swered. 

A soothing touch, — and it was, from 

her Heavenly Father’s hand, — but Lisbeth 
only thought of the earthly father gone from 
her, — gone into Heaven. 

For a second, not longer than it took for a 
bird to fly across their path, did the far-away 
look that had come with the words, linger on 
her face, — and then, again she was talking 
gaily. 

“ I have had such a beautiful, beautiful 


IN THE MIST . 


I29 


time,” she said, two hours later, as she 
fastened a shining cluster of mountain ash 
berries in her cousin Ethel’s dark hair, and 
she did not see the quick flush that over- 
spread Ethel’s face at the words ; she did not 
hear the impatient tap of her foot on the 
carpet of moss, neither did she notice the 
quick look of pain, that for a moment flashed 
across Mr. Gordon’s countenance. 

It was that night, lying wide awake, listen- 
ing to the wind in the pines, that sounded so 
like the sea-waves, that Lisbeth heard a new 
whisper in her heart, — that night, that softly 
she murmured : “ What is it ? ” — 


9 


XIX. 

L ISBETH had lived the eighteen years of 
her life, as untouched by love of one 
kind, as a wild-wood flower, that buds and * 
blossoms in some sheltered nook, far away 
from the gaze of passers, and though she 
asked herself, “ What is it?” she did not 
know what touch had fallen on her, till the 
very last of their mountain days. She only 
knew, she was very happy; only knew, all the 
beauty that surrounded her seemed* dearer 
and fuller than before. 

If now and then she wished Ethel would 
not turn from her with a hasty, impatient 
word, or that Mr. Gordon did not look so 
gravely, so almost sternly at her, she straight- 
way forgot them, when with Sylvester Ing- 
ham for companion, she wandered here and 

there, seeking ferns and flowers, or some 
(130) 


IN THE MIST. 


131 

farther-reaching outlook, than any yet dis- 
covered. 

Mr. Ingham said no word of love to her ; 
he was not a young man to be hasty ; he was 
well-nigh full as old as Mr. Gordon, and 
Lisbeth remembered, Mrs. Blinn had said, he 
was “ thirty, not a day younger.’' 

But, without a word, she went on living in 
her glad dream, the beautiful vague dream of 
a happiness undefined, went on building 
castles in the air, as wondrous and as fair as 
the pictures of cloud-land, but as intangible. 

Meanwhile Sylvester Ingham was per- 
plexed ; he had not really meant to waken 
the warm interest which Lisbeth was too 
unlearned in the art of concealment to dis- 
guise from his practiced eyes. 

To be sure, she charmed him ; his heart 
went out unbidden toward her, with a tender- 
ness he had not felt for any woman since his 
youth. — But as for binding her future to his, 
by an open engagement, he did not think of 
it for a moment. — And yet, he felt it would 
become awkward if things went on ; what 


IN THE MIST. 


132 

could he do ; should he win her consent to 
a secret promise ? — and then let what would 
come ; for the present all would be well, and 
beyond the present, he was not wont to take 
thought or care, — yet, so strong over him was 
Lisbeth’s unacknowledged influence, even his 
cold, selfish heart recoiled from winning from 
her a promise to keep a secret from her 
uncle,— for he so well remembered one of 
the very first of his long conversations with 
Lisbeth, during which she Jhad said, in her 
child-like, confiding way : 

“ My uncle has given me what I call a 
code of honor to keep with him, and first 
among its rules is that I am never to have 
a secret from him, and never to give anything 
away, without first asking his permission ; of 
course I do not mean trifling things.” 

And with a smile she had added : 

“ I believe he thinks I am such a novice in 
the ways of this great world called society, 
that I need, oh so many rules, but I do not 
know why this one, for, what have I to give 
but trifles ? ” 


IN THE MIST. 


133 

And the smile had deepened on her face as 
she said : 

“You know, I do not come into my prop- 
erty till I am twenty-one ; I am so glad, for I 
never like to take care of money ; all I like 
about it is, the making other people happy 
with it.” 

And then Lisbeth had told of her plans, for 
new cottages for the fisher-folk, and simple 
improvements about the village, and sur- 
roundings of G., — unconscious all the time, 
that her uncle’s words had aught to do with 
anything save money, — but full well Mr. 
Ingham knew it was the girl’s heart, not her 
wealth, Mr. Andrew Endicott sought to 
guard. 

“But no,” he said to himself, “I can not 
be bound by an open engagement, I can not 
sacrifice my freedom for that ; she is a fair, 
sweet flower for a summer-day pastime; but 
she would straightway wither in the life that 
is life to me ; better Ethel than Lisbeth, if it 
must be one or the other.” 

He was walking back and forth on the 


134 


IN THE MIST. 


broad piazza of the hotel as he thought thus. 
It was night ; Lisbeth was sleeping the sleep 
of a child, dreaming the dreams of a maiden, 
and it was while she dreamed thus, that he 
decided to let their brief acquaintance end, 
as a summer-time recreation. 

“ It has been pleasant to me,” he said ; “ she 
is a child, she will forget.” 

But the heart of man is weak; and Syl- 
vester Ingham was selfish ; and when the next 
day came, like that far-famed flower of the 
western plains, that in all changes of wind or 
weather points its leaves unvaryingly to the 
same point of the compass, so he found him- 
self, thinking of Lisbeth again. 

It was the last of their days among the 
mountains; on the morrow they were to 
leave. 

Lisbeth was awake with the birds, and like 
them she was singing when she met Mr. Ing- 
ham that morning, — she did not know he had 
passed down the glen before her, and when a 
sudden turn in the narrow path brought her 
suddenly face to face with him, she blushed, 


IN THE MIST. 


135 


a blush as rosy as the flush on the fleecy 
clouds of the dawning day. Her hands were 
full of flowers, as on her birthday morning, — 
flowers, that she had gathered with a heart 
as free as it was then, from any thought that, 
that day, was to be unlike all other days 
to her! — though with an instinct, subtle as 
that which bids birds fly southward, because 
winter is coming, even before there is a 
breath of frost in the air, Lisbeth was con- 
scious of a something thrilling in her heart, 
and making her long, as she had not done for 
weeks, to be a child again, folded once more 
in her father’s arms. — The earthly fathers* 
she had no thought of the “ Everlasting 
Arms,” so ready if she had but sought their 
shelter, to enfold her safer than any earthly 
father could. 

It was a song of the summer she sang, no 
echo of a sigh in it, — 

“ Summer, clad in regal beauty, 

Crowns the sloping hills ; 

Sleeps in quiet shady valleys, 

Laughs in rippling rills. 


136 


IN TIIF. MIST. 


“ Summer, with her wealth of fragrance, 

Floats on every breeze — 

Whispers in her sweetest language 
To the swaying trees.” 

As she ceased, she stretched out her hand in 
response to Sylvester Ingham’s morning 
greeting, — such a little hand, dimpled and 
soft, but brown with the kiss of sunbeams ; 
and as he took it, he called her, “ Lisbeth.” — 
“ Do you remember,” she said, “ you asked 
me what was the language of the mountain 
peaks? Tell me now, what is this ‘ sweetest 
language summer whispers to the swaying 
trees ; ’ the sweetest word of my life, I know 
what it is; but I wonder, what will be the 
sweetest language ? ” — and she lifted her eyes, 
full of questioning, to his, — softly adding: 

“ The sweetest word, it is the memory of 
my father’s calling me his ‘ Lily-bell,’ — but the 
language, what will it be ? ” 

Was it strange he told her then, — strange, 
his resolves faded and vanished like the morn- 
ing mist, — the heart of man is weak. 

When he ceased speaking, Lisbeth, 


IN THE MIST. 


137 


whose gaze had been so fearless, stood before 
him with head bowed and hands clasped, the 
flowers fallen from them, fallen and scattered 
at her feet, for the wind to play over, the sun- 
shine to wither, — poor flowers, broken so 
ruthlessly from stalk and stem ! 

Just a few brief words, were all her heart 
was conscious of. 

And there, — in the stillness of that moun- 
tain glen, with the blue sky overhead, the 
morning light falling on her, with the flowers 
at her feet, there had come to Elizabeth En- 
dicott, as it comes to us all at one time or 
another, “the future, to the present.” — The 
gift, the dearest and the sweetest, or the bit- 
terest and the saddest of life’s gifts — love. — 


XX. 



ISBETH wondered, did Alexander Gor- 


' dori guess aught of the story of that 
morning? 

The glen path was a mossy-way, cushioned, 
too, by the soft pine-needles that strewed the 
ground well-nigh an inch deep in some places, 
— a footfall might have come and gone un- 
heard. 

Just once, she could not tell why, a sudden 
sense of a presence, not Mr. Ingham's, had 
come over her, but she saw no one, and she 
gave it but little heed. 

Yes, he did know, — love is so quick to 
read, — and yet, it was only a glimpse he 
caught, a shadowy broken glimpse, half-veiled 
by the interlacing of the gently - swaying 
hemlock branches, and the flitting, dancing 
sunlight. But, — that vision of scarce a mo- 
ment, for years and years afterward, came un- 


(138) 


IN THE MIST ; 


139 

bidden, to haunt him “ like a scrap of a ballad 
rhyme.” 

After that, — but what need to tell. 

It was late in the afternoon when at last 
Mr. Gordon joined the group on the hotel 
piazza. — They were just starting forth, for 
one more look at the rainbow, that always 
shone ia the mountain cascade at sunset. 

“Where have you been all day?” more 
than one eager voice queried, — and as be- 
came a man, with no hint of pain in his tone, 
he told of a long ramble far up to the highest 
of all the mountain outlooks. 

“ Did you go without a guide ? ” 

It was Lisbeth who thus asked, and he an- 
swered : 

“ Yes, without a guide.” 

She did not guess the bitter truth of his 
words, for he had so invested her with all 
sweet and sacred charms, that he was left in 
a dark wood, guideless and alone ; when first 
he knew she could love one so unworthy of 
her as Sylvester Ingham ; for though he was 
an attractive man, refined in manner, and had 


140 


IN THE MIST. 


been sought and caressed by society for years, 
there was yet a lack of sincerity about him 
that Alexander Gordon could scarcely under- 
stand Lisbeth’s not discovering; a false hol- 
lowness in his sentiments; a bitter sceptical 
unbelief in his words and estimate of serious 
things, that seemed all out of harmony with 
her simple, truthful nature. — But the** feeling 
passed away ; he had met and struggled with 
it, and “ true love is confidence,” and it does 
not mistrust its object ; he had faith that Lis- 
beth would rise above the present glamour 
that shut her eyes to the fact that Sylvester 
Ingham’s heart was empty of that, which her 
father had taught her was true, and right in 
principle, deed, and word, and he could wait, 
though the waiting-time be hard, — harder 
than he then dreamed. — Alexander Gordon 
was noble, too, it had always been true of him : 

“ To do him any wrong was to beget 
A kindness from him, for his heart was rich. 

Of such fine mould, if you sow’d therein 
The seed of hate, it blossomed Charity.” 

And he conquered the anger that at first he 


IN THE MIST . 


141 

felt toward Mr. Ingham, crushed it out of his 
heart, as resolutely as he crushed the grass 
and moss of the mountain path beneath his 
firm tread. 

But, it was hard to come back to look at 
Lisbeth, so much more quiet than her wont, 
yet with a light on her face that only glad- 
ness gives ; a contradictory light even that 
day ; for she did not understand why Mr. 
Ingham tarried by her side so much less than 
usual ; why after their return from the glen, 
he chatted so gaily with Ethel, almost turn- 
ing away from her ; why when he plucked 
a handful of hare-bells from an overhanging 
rock, he gave half to Ethel, and half to her- 
self. Mr. Gordon was her companion on 
that walk to the cascade ; he helped her care- 
fully over the rough places that now and 
then intercepted their progress ; once he lin- 
gered, and Lisbeth lingered too, while with a 
harsh hand, he tore the ribbon-like, smooth 
bark, from a mountain birch, that grew in 
among the hemlocks and pines. 

As he did it, with a look of pity on her 


142 


IN THE MIST. 


face, Lisbeth touched the place, saying, 
“ Poor tree ! ” And then, though he thought 
he Had conquered himself, for the first and 
only time of his life, Alexander Gordon spoke 
bitterly to Lisbeth. 

“It will heal again,” he said; “it is but 
a tree, — it is not a heart, Lisbeth.” 

He, too, called her Lisbeth, that day. 


XXI. 


HE light in Lisbeth’s face, that Alex- 



ander Gordon recognized as the light 
of gladness ; but that had even when first he 
saw it, something contradictory in it, was in 
truth a reflection of her heart. 

For Mr. Ingham’s apparent devotion to 
Ethel, when he had told her of love for 
herself ; was not the only thing that Lisbeth 
did not quite understand. 

She was conscious of an undefined sense of 
dissatisfaction with herself, — that as weeks 
came and went, amounted to restlessness. 

She had been reared in an atmosphere 
of truthfulness, not only in word, but in deed, 
and thought, and when Sylvester Ingham 
had said to her, — 

“ Let our love be a secret between us, our 
secret, Lisbeth, and hide it, child, from all 


(143) 


144 


IN THE MIST. 


eyes but mine,” even though she had con- 
sented, she could not entirely silence the 
memory of her father’s teaching. 

“Always be open with me, Lisbeth, open 
as the daylight.” And her uncle’s recent in- 
junction, “Have no secret from me, Lisbeth.” 

She had said this to Mr. Ingham, as reluc- 
tantly she had consented to his wish, while 
his arguments only half silenced the unrest 
of her heart ; hence she was disturbed, and 
yet, there was such sweetness in the “ happy 
secret,” as he called it, she did not heed the 
feeling sufficiently to be willing to recognize, 
that it was the voice of conscience speaking 
in her heart. 

For though she was wont to be so strong 
of will with others, with Sylvester Ingham 
she was weak. 

There was, too, another cause for Lisbeth’s 
gladness having a contradictory element in it, 
another whisper of conscience that she as 
resolutely refused to heed : it came from the 
fact, that she accepted Mr. Ingham’s every 
word, even when something in her told her, 


IN THE MIST. 


145 


they were' not after her father’s belief. — 
Accepted them as unquestionably, as a child 
reaches out its hand after flowers and weeds 
alike. Herein lay her chief danger, for her 
heart was like a mirror, catching and reflect- 
ing on its smooth surface Mr. Ingham’s 
thoughts ; thus the sense of unrest, — that 
ever since the days following her father’s 
death, when she had first admitted rebellious 
questionings of God’s love into her mind, — 
deepened rather than lessened, after every 
conversation with Sylvester Ingham, that 
went beyond mere surface topics ; as most of 
their long conversations did. 

Lisbeth those days, was like one walking 
amid the ruins of ancient Rome ; one who 
calls the misty veil of the twilight’s violet 
hues beautiful and tender ; who smiles as it 
softens outline of ruin and decay, never 
heeding the poisonous miasma, and subtle 
mischief-working vapor, that forms the trans- 
parent haze ; for she heeded not the mist of 
unbelief, and the acted though not uttered 
falsehoods ; that were weaving their gossamer 


10 


146 


IN THE MIST. 


web, their tangle of temptation about her 
soul, with a well-nigh invisible thread ; yet a 
thread that every day grew stronger, and 
harder to break, — heeded them not, because 
their very shadowy soft refinement of utter- 
ance, like the mist that veiled the ruins, hid 
the rude jagged outlines of unbelief, to which 
they led ; just as the wrong of her tacit false- 
hood was hidden by the dearness, and the 
sweetness of her love. — But only hidden for 
the time, — for such mists always lift, always 
reveal ruins at last. 

A recent writer, wise not only in the 
knowledge of the schools, but with the wis- 
dom, too, of a heart that loved humanity, and 
thrilled to its needs, has left recorded in a 
sermon on the wilderness temptation, words, 
that well depict Lisbeth’s state of mind at 
that time, — he writes : “ What proves those 
three temptations to have been very subtle 
and dangerous, and terrible, is this, that we 
can not see at first sight that they were temp- 
tations at all.” — Mark the words, at first sight. 
And he adds : “ The very danger of these 


IN THE MIST. 


H7 


spiritual temptations is, that they do not look 
like temptations ; they do not look ugly, ab- 
surd, wrong ; they look pleasant, reasonable, 
right.” 

How many of us can echo this in our own 
experience. If temptation had come to us 
in repellant form of the recognized wrongs of 
life, had come knocking at our heart’s door, 
how loudly would we have said, Nay, to their 
entrance ; how securely we would have barred 
that door, with barrier and bolt. — But, — the 
silent growth of pride in the heart ; the soft 
whisper, that “ one is different from his fellow 
men, safer than they, more favored by God ; 
herein lies the chief danger to most of us.” 

Certainly it proved so to Elizabeth Endi- 
cott. Reared as she had been, if temptation 
had come to her like some wild storm, dash- 
ing foam-crested waves in pitiless fury on the 
beach, she would have resolutely laid her 
hand on the anchor of her light barque, and 
said : “ No, no, I will. not leave the safe shore, 
I will not venture on the storm -tossed 
waves;” but when it came as it did, alluring 


148 


IN THE MIST : 


as a child’s voice calling her to gather flowers, 
she went forth, never so much as heeding the 
real meaning of the prayer, “ Lord, lead me 
not into temptation ; ” and thus, she turned 
from the unsatisfied feeling ; the nameless 
unrest that was sent to warn her, hushing its 
voice, so that she even said to herself, and 
thought the words true, — thought so for 
weeks : 

“ The days are all sunshine ;” while she said 
to Sylvester Ingham : 

“ Do you remember how I said, as we came 
down the mountain path that first morning,” 
(and he knew the morning she meant), — “ we 
were going into the clouds, do you remem- 
ber ? — and it was all a mistake ; there has been 
nothing but sunshine since, — no storm, — no 
cloud.” — 

And yet, as she spoke, the cloud was about 
her. — 

Lisbeth never forgot his reply : 

“ If clouds do come between us, Lisbeth,” 
— he called her by the name they called her 
at home ; — “ have you faith in me to know, 


IN THE MIST. 


149 

clouds are but mist to eyes bright enough to 
see through them ? ” 

Softly she answered : 

“Yes, faith enough.” — 

And so, he let her go on believing in him. 


XXII. 


HE Endicotts lingered late at the 



JL Manor that year. Till the very last 
week of their stay, Mr. Gordon and Sylvester 
Ingham continued to come for the Sundays, 
— those days that were so full of the won- 
drous, tranquil beauty, that is the benediction 
of autumn Sabbaths. 

The village church was full five miles dis- 
tant from the Manor by the carriage road, and 
four and more by the shady walk by the river 
bank. 

Lisbeth always chose to make one of the 
walking party, and so did her cousin Ethel, 
and either going or returning, Sylvester Ing- 
ham never failed to be Lisbeth’s companion. 

These were almost the only quiet inter- 
views they had ; and sometimes, Ethel, by 
what at first seemed accident, but that after- 


(150) 


IN THE MIST. 


151 

ward Lisbeth felt sure was design, contrived 
to interrupt even them. 

Lisbeth had no experience in being inter- 
fered with; she resented it, and thus there 
sprang up between the cousins, the beginning 
of an estrangement. 

Sometimes she thought too, that Alex- 
ander Gordon strove to prevent Mr. Ingham’s 
joining her, and when he could not do that, 
she always felt he followed them with a 
gloomy gaze ; as they wandered from the 
well-trodden path, down to the river’s sandy 
beach, or under the trees, through the shady 
woodland way. 

But Lisbeth never felt the same irritation 
toward Mr. Gordon’s interference that she 
did toward Ethel’s ; there was always a pro- 
tecting kindness in his manner to her, that 
won her confidence, though her complaint 
was still, “ he treats me as though I were 
a child.” 

It was the very last of their country Sab- 
baths, when she said thus to Sylvester Ing- 
ham, adding, “ It always seems to me, though 


152 


IN THE MIST. 


I can not explain it, as if he held my fate 
in his hand, I mean,” and she looked up with 
one of her., brightest smiles, “ if any one but 
you could do that.” 

Did they both hold it in a certain way ? • 

That mysterious way, by which the Lord, 
without whom not a sparrow falleth, orders 
our lives, and yet lets us freely choose our 
own paths, our own deeds ; and permits, too, 
the influence of others which environ us, to 
mold what we in our finite language call, 
“ our destiny.” 

Fate, — just the brief word, used thought- 
lessly as we use words, led Lisbeth and 
Sylvester Ingham into a far-reaching talk, 
during which he let fall hints of fallacies, that 
took a deeper root, and yielded a bitterer 
fruit, than any he had before uttered to her. 

And here again, came in the mystery that 
the Lord was leading her, though she seemed 
so led by earthly guidance. — A mystery that 
grows plain, when we remember that “it 
is not the absence or yet the ignorance of 
temptation, either in thought or deed, that 


IN THE MIST 


153 


insures purity of heart and life.” — When we 
remember, “God is faithful, who will not 
suffer us to be tempted, above that we are 
able.” 

Able to resist ; so if we yield, it is not 
because we have not the power of resistance 
within us, but because we have not the will 
to exert it. — And the will, we never can have, 
till we yield our will to Christ’s, and some- 
times, it is only by feeling the power of 
temptation that we are brought to cry to 
Him for help, — to cry, — “Take my will, and 
make it Thine.” 

There are, too, hearts in which faith is born 
of doubt, lives in which, like Lisbeth’s, 
troubles are a sign, that the Father in heaven 
is teaching, by perchance the only way they 
can learn it, that great lesson of life, “ Empty 
thyself, and God will fill thee.” 

But, when the Lord teaches thus, it must 
ever be a slow process, a corn of wheat falling 
into the ground and dying, before the green 
upshooting of the grain, and then the stalk, 
— a complex thing, — a slender stalk, that 


154 


IN THE MIST. 


scarce can bear the weight of a little bird, 
but that holds, handfuls of nourishment, that 
yet must be crushed and bruised, before it 
becomes really food. — All along a complex 
thing, when taken as a type of life. 

It was on the afternoon of that day, that 
Lisbeth had another talk, the memory of 
which lasted as long as the memory of her 
morning talk with Sylvester Ingham. 

It was with Mr. Gordon; it seemed strange 
it followed so closely her light words, that 
he seemed to hold her fate. 

She was sitting on the bank of the rippling 
brook, in a sheltered nook, where though 
the autumn wind was chill, the rays of the 
westering sun fell warm and bright about her. 

When he joined her, she was tossing the 
white pebbles that strewed the path above 
her, into the clear shallow water, where each 
one as it fell, stirred a hundred tiny ripples ; 
she looked up as he approached, with the 
look of questioning that so often was on her 
face when with him, and with no preface as 
to what led to the words, she said abruptly : 


IN THE MIST. 


155 

“ I live so in the future, my life seems like 
one long day-dream.” — 

“How can you live in the future?” Mr. 
Gordon replied ; “ when you can not see it, 
why not change your words, Miss Lisbeth, 
and live for the future?” 

“ Why,” she murmured, lifting her eyes to 
his, with one of her quick responsive glances, 
“ why, because I love my day-dreams, they 
are all beautiful, and if when the future 
comes, it is not ; why, then, I must bear it as 
well as I can.” 

And she laughed, a light-hearted little 
laugh, low and sweet, as she added : 

“ And, however dark the present, it never 
can take away the future, because except in 
our thoughts, we never can touch it, you 
know,” and again she laughed, as she said : 

“ And I am queen of my thoughts, so I am 
queen of my future ; I like so much, the hav- 
ing the garden of thought all for my own 
realm.” * 

Then Mr. Gordon let fall a shadow over 
Lisbeth’s gaiety. 


i $6 


IN THE MIST . 


“ Have you thought,’’ he asked, “ that the 
waking from your day-dreams, will be all the 
sadder in proportion, as the dreams have 
been sweeter than the reality proves? ” 

“I know,” — Lisbeth answered, while an 
undertone of sadness crept into her voice, 
and a look of tender pathos shone in her 
eyes. 

“ I remember it was so, — that day.” 

Mr. Gordon knew what she meant, for in 
her talks with him, she was wont to turn 
backward to the day of their meeting, — the 
day of her father’s death. 

“ Yes, I remember,” softly she continued ; 
“ I had such beautiful dreams for my life with 
my father, — dreams, that ended all in a mo- 
ment, that gave place to ” 

And she did not say what ; but again Mr. 
Gordon understood her, — understood her so 
well, that he was silent, looking away, while 
he tossed the white pebbles into the brooklet, 
as she had been doing when he joined her. 

Presently, Lisbeth spoke in a voice so low, 
he had to bend forward to catch her words: 


IN THE MIST. 


i5 7 


“ Everything is so changed to me since that 
day,” she said. “ It seems years and years ago 
since I was a child at home, since when, how- 
ever restless my heart had been, it grew calm 
at twilight, as my father held my hand in his ; 
and I told him of my day, that ended as the 
stars came out in the blue sky, — ‘ our hour/ 
we used to call that time between the day- 
light and the dark; yes, everything is so 
changed now ; tell me why ? ” 

She was so like a child still in her trustful 
appeal for help ; this girl, who had grown up 
as a flower. • 

“ I remember it all so well,” she continued, 
“ yet it seems far, far off, — the shining stars ; 
the soft sweet music of the waves breaking 
on the beach ; the faint murmur of the wind 
among the trees ; ” and she lifted her hand, as 
though to listen, while she whispered: 

“ I almost thought I heard the dear, dear 
music of my home by the sea; I almost 
thought I caught the fragrance of the roses 
that bloomed before my father left me.” 

And again, there fell a silence between 


i 5 8 


IN THE MIST. 


them, which she was the one to break, re- 
peating : 

“ Yes, it is all so changed. Is it,” — and a look 
of fear stole Over her face, while her voice 
trembled, — “ because I have lost the faith I 
had then ; will the ‘ tree tops never brush 
close against the sky ’ for me any more, as 
they used to do, and all because ‘ I am farther 
off from Heaven than when I was a child.’ — 
Ah, tell me ? ” 

And Mr. Gordon told her, “yes,” — and then 
he tried to tell her why. 

“•But I did have doubts then,” Lisbeth 
said ; “ and everything seemed to slip away 
from me in the darkness of grief that came 
into my soul after my father’s death, — only it 
was different doubt, such a different loss of 
faith in God than it is now.” 

Little did she know how different, for the 
one, was the rebellion of a heart unlearned in 
sorrow and submission, but still a child’s 
heart ; while the present questions were subtle 
and dangerous, as hidden reefs beneath 
treacherous seas. 


IN THE MIST. 


159 


But Mr. Gordon could tell her this, only by 
a hint. And, did she take the hint, he asked 
himself, as their conversation was interrupted 
by the coming of Sylvester Ingham and Ethel. 

A bright talk followed, but spite its bright- 
ness, the pleasure was all on the surface to 
Lisbeth, for try though she did, she could not 
throw off the nameless sadness that oppressed 
her ; and that deepened as the evening wore 
on, for something was stirring in her heart, to 
which Mr. Ingham’s words could bring no 
rest ; his brilliant wit, no soothing. 

“ What ails you to-night, Lisbeth ? ” he said, 
— and though his tone was gentle, his glance 
tender as ever it had been, she could find no 
answer to his question, — she felt like one 
wandering mist - bewildered, through some 
path familiar, and yet strange. 

It was not until just before the good-nights 
were said, that Lisbeth brightened, and then 
it was only for a brief time ; for when alone in 
the quiet of her own room, the sadness came 
over her again, — she could not sleep, as was 
her wont, the peaceful, refreshing sleep of 


i6o 


IN THE MIST. 


youth ; she lay wide awake, with open eyes 
peering out into the darkness of the room ; 
and a soul looking out from the cloud-mists 
that enveloped the clear shining of right, and 
truth in her heart ; while over and over she 
repeated : 

“ Is it because I have lost my childhood’s 
faith ; am I drifting out, — out, — where ? ” 

But though she thus asked, she was un- 
learned in the first steps of struggle with self ; 
unlearned in seeking Christ’s help, where she 
was too weak and ignorant to go alone, — she 
knew naught of the ceaseless efforts by which 
we have to rise above ourselves, our tempta- 
tions, our sorrows, — and, may we not add, 
sometimes above our joys too? 

When the morning came, Lisbeth, with the 
impatience of a willful child, turned from 
Alexander Gordon’s warning, and the grave 
thoughts that had come to her in the stillness 
and darkness of the night, saying to herself, 
“ Sylvester knows, — he says,” — and yet ; her 
heart failed her, when she tried to analyze 
what he said. 


XXIII. 


M R. Andrew Endicott’s city home was 
on one of the broadest avenues of 
the city of broad avenues. A stately home, 
made beautiful and inviting by every adorn- 
ment of art and luxury. The windows of 
Lisbeth’s room overlooked a sheltered park, 
where the grass was as green as in mid- 
summer till quite into the winter ; where the 
leaves clung to the trees, as though they 
never would fall to make way for the buds 
of another spring. — But they fell at last, — 
leaves always do, — nature is ever an index to 
the story of human lives. 

It had been decided that Lisbeth should 
not return home before the spring. 

“ My time is so fully occupied,” she wrote 
Mrs. Blinn, “ the hours fly, and it will not 
seem long before the winter too will speed 

(ibi) 


ii 


162 


I AT THE MIST. 


away. I am to have masters in German and 
i.n music after Christmas, and a few lessons in 
painting, to help me find the secret of atmos- 
phere ; the magic touch that catches a cloud- 
scape, out of what? — only a few colors on my 
palette ; a few touches of my brush on the 
canvas ? ” 

And then, with one of her sudden changes 
from gaiety to thoughtfulness, she wrote : “ It 
seems so to hint the story of our lives, for 
just a few colors, a few touches of the brush, 
and lo ! we paint even with our own hands, 
clouds in the sky ! ” 

• Mrs. Blinn read the^words over more than 
once ; she never quite understood Lisbeth : 
“Was the child in earnest?” thus she 
queried : “ Did she have some deep meaning 
underlying her words, as Mr. Grant did in his 
sermons ?” (which Mrs. Blinn was wont to 
call “ most excellent,” though sometimes a 
little too high for one of her ability.) 

She was at a loss how to reply to Lisbeth’s 
note ; she was sorely disappointed, too, at her 
decision not to return for so many months. 


IN THE MIST. 


163 


“The child will slip away from me,” she 
sighed ; “ my lady-bird forget her simple home- 
songs ; ” and good Mrs. Blinn required to rub 
the glasses of her spectacles more than once, 
before her answer was completed. 

But at last the task was accomplished ; the 
letter folded and sealed, after the safe old 
fashion of wax and taper. — 

A letter full of home-items, telling of the 
garden, of how Michael had tied up the rose 
bushes in their winter caps of straw, and 
covered the lily beds with dry leaves, so that 
the frost should not hurt the tender things. — 
Then followed a full description of every ani- 
mal about the place ; from her father’s white 
horse, to Tabby the cat, who was lying on the 
hearth rug purring her low pussy song, as 
Mrs. Blinn wrote. A page was dedicated, too, 
to what Lisbeth called, “ neighborhood gos- 
sip ; ” and full of messages from one and ano- 
ther, who had known her all her life long. 

Another page gave a detailed account of 
the fever that had raged among the fisher- 
men’s families down below the cliff; of how 


164 


IN THE MIST. 


little Milly Danforth had sickened and died; 
and how her last words were : “ Give my love 
to Miss Lisbeth.” — “ She was holding the 
china lamb you gave her, when she went off,” 
Mrs. Blinn wrote, “ and somehow she set such 
store by it, they left it in her little hand when 
they put her into her coffin. It seemed sort 
of unchristian-like, but Mr. Grant said noth- 
ing against it ; in fact, some say, he made a 
kind of sermon out of it; you know the 
fisher-folk need to be appealed to through 
their imaginations.” 

Only in one line in that long letter, did 
Mrs. Blinn touch upon the new physician who 
had come to fill Doctor Endicott’s place. 

“A kindly-spoken man,” she wrote ; “ but, 
child, I can not bear the sight of him ; it 
brings back memories of the past so, — old 
woman that I am ; I go out of my way time 
after time, ,to avoid meeting that chaise and 
the new doctor.” 

And — at those words, the spectacle glasses 
had not prevented the falling of more than 


IN THE MIST. ^5 

one tear-drop on the paper, — they left only 
tiny marks, — but Lisbeth saw them. 

The letter ended after the model of letters 
in Mrs. Blinn’s youth, with a few words of 
pious counsel, enforced by a verse of poetry, 
— wise little lines, that caused the good 
woman much research to find : 

“ I will tell you how to live, 

Heartily and truly, 

With sweet honey in your hive, 

Like a bee in July. 

Like the bee be out and work, 

When the sun is shining. 

Never in a corner lurk.” 


XXIV. 


T IFE in the city was more lonely to Lis- 
^ beth than it had been at the Manor. — 
The deep mourning of her dress precluded 
her sharing in many of her aunt and cousins’ 
amusements, that the informality of country 
life had not interfered with. 

She had, too, but little heart, or natural 
taste for what are termed the pleasures of 
society; and with the exception of little 
Lucille, she had grown farther away, rather 
than nearer in sympathy to her cousins, as 
weeks had widened into months; becoming 
more and more conscious of the dissimilarity 
between them, which she had instinctively 
felt at first. 

There was another cause for this, too : Lis- 
beth was unused to concealment of any kind, 

and it gave a restraint to her natural frank- 
(166) 


IN THE MIST : 167 

ness of utterance, and manner; while the 
sense of dissatisfaction with herself deepened, 
and re-acted in making her dissatisfied with 
others, — she was, in fact, beginning to feel 
her promise, to keep secret her engagement 
to Sylvester Ingham a burden ; rather than 
the something so sweet as she had at first 
called it, — called it, even while she shrank 
from disobeying her uncle. 

“ If I could go back, and had never consented 
to concealment,” she so often wished those 
days ; “ if I had only said at first, that I must 
tell my uncle, Ethel, and all of them ; then 
this perplexity and annoyance would have 
been saved.” — 

And Lisbeth wept bitterly as she mur- 
mured : “ Then I never would have lost the 
possession of truthfulness out of my heart ; 
the golden treasure, my father used to call it ; 
but now it is gone, and I can not get it back, 
— I have by my own consent, acted a false- 
hood, even though I have not uttered it.” 

For Lisbeth knew, she had striven more 
than once, to give her uncle and aunt, Ethel 


IN THE MIST. 


1 68 

and others, wrong impressions ; while she had 
consented to meet Mr. Ingham time after 
time, since they came to the city, and con- 
cealed those meetings. 

Yet, though she was lacking in the strength 
of self-mastery, which was needed to help her 
rise above it, she had a boundless courage, an 
entire self-forgetfulness, which made her brave 
and eager to bear all the blame herself, if 
there ever was blame to be borne, for the mis- 
take, — she then called it by no harsher name. 

Beside this, another shadow had crept over 
her heart, for with the quick intuition of a 
woman’s nature, which reaches conclusions 
rather by insight than argument ; she felt, 
while she could scarce grasp it even in her 
thoughts, that a something had come be- 
tween her and Mr. Ingham, and for that, too, 
she blamed herself, — not him. — 

Lisbeth’s is a commonplace story, old and 
oft repeated, as such heart-stories are. — 
Trouble springing out of little things, the 
tiny cloud in the sky, that grows till the blue 
is all hidden, till at last the storm breaks. 


IN THE MIST. 


169 


Christmas was over and gone before this 
happened to her, — over and gone, before this 
undefined “ something ” assumed a tangible 
form. It was the last day of the year, — that 
year, that had brought so much to Elizabeth 
Endicott, that had taken so much from her too. 
It was almost time for it to fold up its wings 
and fly away, where ? — where do the dead 
years go? — 

All day Lisbeth had been restless ; toward 
sunset she went out, though it was bleak and 
cold ; she could not stay in the house any 
longer, for somehow, it seemed like a prison 
to her ; she felt such a wild longing for her 
father, such a homesick longing for the free- 
dom of her old life ; an eager yearning to hear 
the waves breaking on the shore below the 
cliff, and the wind sighing among the pines. 

The avenue was crowded with a throng 
of gaily-dressed passers, smiling women, and 
courtly men, all hurrying home, out of the 
cold, and the approaching dark ; “ all but me,” 
Lisbeth said, to herself, “all but me hurry- 
ing home.” Everything jarred on her, she 


170 


IN THE MIST. 


wanted to be alone ; for a moment she felt as 
though she would like to fly away with the 
ending year, and be out of it all ; for the 
perplexities and annoyances, that are so wont 
to spring out of concealment, had thickened 
about her during the last few days; her 
estrangement with her cousin Ethel widened ; 
she understood her less and less. 

“ If I could tell my uncle of my engage- 
ment, I think I would feel like myself again,” 
she said. “ I never knew concealment before, 
I think it is that that oppresses me.” — And it 
was, — and something more. — She turned 
from the avenue at the corner, and went into 
the park, which the windows in her room 
overlooked. 

The leaves that had clung to the trees so 
long had all fallen now ; they lay thick on the 
grass, and as when she was a child, she used 
to leave the garden walks, to run ankle deep 
among the violets and daisies of the fields 
about her home, so now she left the broad 
trim paths that intersected the park, to tread 
among the fallen leaves. 


IN THE MIST. 


171 


Their rustling music, though it was like a 
dirge for the ending year, was soothing to 
her ; and when a sudden gust of wind caught 
and whirled the yellow and brown things in 
circling eddies about her, she laughed ; her 
mood was strange even to herself. It was 
very quiet in the little park ; far away seemed 
all the confusion and crowd of the great city. 
The rumbling of wheels, the incessant puls- 
ing of sound, came to her like the beat of a 
muffled drum. 

She did not heed the deepening twilight ; 
she never had felt fear, and yet she started, 
when a quick step approached, sounding 
sharp and clear in the frosty air, — started 
only for a moment ; for at once she recog- 
nized Sylvester Ingham. 

They had often met in the park before, 
and yet somehow, she had not looked for 
his coming then, — it was later than she was 
wont to be out alone. 

“ I am so glad it is you,” she said impetu- 
ously, without a word of greeting, and she 


\J2 IN THE MIST. 

laid her hand on his arm, saying in a plead- 
ing voice : 

“ Will you tell my uncle of our engage- 
ment to-night, will you let this time of con- 
cealment end with the ending year ? ” 

She did not look up to see the impatient 
frown on his face, as he replied, “ Why ? ” 
And yet, she felt there was no heartiness in 
his tone ; and with the eagerness gone from 
her manner, the pleading from her voice, she 
said, — this girl of contradictions, — 

“ No, no, do not tell him if you would 
rather not.” — And then, there followed words, 
that made Lisbeth ever after remember that 
hour, as the bitterest hour of her life, — though 
life held many sad hours for her. 

For it was then, that Sylvester Ingham, 
the man who had won her love, cast it from 
him as lightly, as he pushed aside the fallen 
leaves from beneath his foot. 

Then, that he uttered cold, selfish words, 
that sprang from a fickle, shallow heart, re- 
vealing, that he was tired of the love he had 


IN THE MIST. 


173 


found it easy to win ; tired, when the zest of 
seeking the prize was over. — Words, to which 
Lisbeth made no answer ; and yet he shrank 
from her gaze, as she lifted her eyes and 
looked at him, with a look that seemed to 
read his very heart, — a look, that the deepen- 
ing twilight shadows did not hide. 

Neither did she reply, when he added 
words colder and more selfish ; — only once 
during the whole interview did she speak, — 
after that she was silent, — silent as on the 
morning, when he had told her of his love, — 
only then, her heart was singing, “He loves 
me, — he loves me,” — she was silent from the 
wonder and joy of it ; while now, her heart 
was crying, “All ended, — ended,” — and she 
was silent from the grief and hurt of it. — 
Silently, too, they turned homeward ; on 
the doorstep they parted. 

“And so it is ended,” he said, “ I under- 
stand you ? ” 

And she bowed her head, and answered : 
“ Ended, — you understand.” — 

And then, — Sylvester Ingham went down 


174 


IN THE MIST. 


the broad avenue, where the throng of pass- 
ers were less, for twilight was fast deepening 
into the early darkness of the short winter’s 
day, — and as he went, he hummed a light 
tune, thinking meanwhile: “Well, so it has 
come to an end ; and she did it herself ; it 
has been smooth sailing for the past few 
months; I was getting a bit tired of the 
thing; it is time for her to wake from her 
day-dream, — she is but a child ; it will be only 
a dream ; she will soon forget me, when she 
finds I am not the ideal she thought,” — and, 
he shrugged his shoulders, as he murmured, 
half aloud : “ And when she ceases to love, 
she will forget.” But though Sylvester Ing- 
ham had sounded far, he was ignorant of the 
depths of Lisbeth’s nature. 


XXV. 


\\ 7" HEN Mr. Ingham left her, Lisbeth 
* * did not go into the house ; she stood 
still and watched his receding figure, and 
then, swiftly as a bird flies, she retraced her 
steps, and re-entered the park. It was quite 
dark there ; only as the flaring light from the 
gas-jet at the entrance flashed across the cen- 
tral walk ; but she turned straightway from it 
into a side path. When quite in shadow, she 
leaned against one of the leafless trees, while 
with a look unlike any look that had ever 
been on her fair face before, she hastily drew 
off the glove from her little hand, and with a 
sudden thrill of pain in every fibre of her 
being, she drew off too, from her third fin- 
ger, a tiny circlet of gold, — a little ring, the 
only one of all the ornaments in her mother’s 
cabinet, she had chosen to wear. 

(i75) 


IN THE MIST. 


1 76 

Passionately she kissed it, — and then, — she 
let the little thing fall down, — down a'mong 
the fallen leaves of the dead summer, while 
passionately, yes, passionately, she stamped 
her foot on the fallen thing. 

It was only a golden ring, — it was lost there 
among the dead leaves ! 

A ring, that one day, one of the sunny 
days of their love, Sylvester Ingham had 
lightly drawn from her finger, and slipped on 
again, with a word of love and promise, 
saying : 

“ When the time to tell of our betrothal 
comes, you shall have, Lisbeth, a jeweled 
ring, sparkling as never jewel sparkled before.” 

After that one passionate outburst ; as is 
the way with quick impulsive natures ; Lisbeth 
was calm ; the strange, hard look went from 
her face, while in its place a dull patience and 
bewilderment came. — And then again she 
started at the sound of approaching footsteps ; 
yet with no sense of surprise, she looked up 
as Alexander Gordon stood before her. 


IN THE MIST. 


1 77 


" Have you come for me ? ” she said, “ come 
to take me home? Yes, I will go,” and un- 
resistingly she let him place her cold little 
hind on his arm. It never occurred to her to 
ask how he came there, how he knew she was 
alone out in the dark, and it never occurred 
to her either, to offer a word of explanation ; 
only as they passed out of the park, under 
the full light of the brilliant gas-jet, she shut 
her eyes, and put her hand before her face ; 
as though to hide the story of pain, written 
there. — 

A minute later, they, too, parted on the 
doorstep. 

“ Miss Lisbeth has a headache, and begs to 
be excused,” was the message a servant 
brought ; when, half an hour afterward, Mrs. 
Endicott had sent to inquire why Lisbeth 
did not appear at the dinner-table, — and, — 
that was all the gay company in the brilliant 
room below, knew of the story of the girl 
alone, in the darkened room above/ 

Evening had well-nigh waned, when a note 
was handed Ethel ; she read it with a frown 


12 


i;8 


IN THE MIST . 


on her face, and yet with a blush and half 
smile, and she said : 

“ Mr. Ingham sends you all good-bye, and 
a happy New Year, dear people ; he is called 
suddenly away on business.” 

The next morning, Ethel repeated the 
words to Lisbeth, as they met at the entrance 
of the breakfast-room, and she added : 

“Are you better ; is your headache all 
gone ? ” 

And Lisbeth answered : 

“ Yes, I am better.” 

And then, the door opened, and a chorus 
of voices greeted them with merry shouts of 
“ Happy, happy New Year.” 


XXVI. 


“ TVT EW YEAR day, with the dead year 
to bury.” — That had been Lisbeth’s 
thought on waking. — 

“ And I have no hymn to sing over its 
grave,” she said bitterly, “ no prayer to lay 
it away with, — for my hymns, I think I have 
forgotten them all, my prayers, — how can I 
pray, when this bitterness is in my heart ; 
when I have shut myself away from God, by 
thinking all these strange thoughts, that be- 
wilder me so, — for, what do I believe, I do 
not know.” — 

And bitterly she wept, hiding her face in 
her pillow, to hush the sound of the sobs, 
which shook her slight frame like long-drawn 
sighs. And then, as is so often the way in 
hours of intense emotion, she fell into reason- 
ing about herself, and the sorrow that had 

(179) 


i8o 


IN THE MIST. 


come to her, as though she were reasoning 
about some one else. She seemed to see her- 
self, as -one sees a figure in a mirage ; as 
something so near and close, and yet so far 
away when we would fain approach and 
touch it. 

“ I suppose it is right,” she murmured, 
“ that we should reap what we sow, but it 
seems so hard, so hard, that our past must 
always hold the seed of our future, — and 
yet, I suppose it is right, that I should be 
deceived, for I have been deceiving, and 
though in such a different way, were not the 
wrong impressions I have striven to give, 
just as truly deceiving, as Mr. Ingham’s giving 
me the impression that he loved me, — when, 
— but oh, he must, — he must have meant 
what he said at first, — that mountain day, 
he must have meant it, and afterward.” 

Then her thought returned to that one 
brief hour of the yesterday, that seemed so 
like hours and hours ; rather than only a short 
sixty seconds of time. 

“ I think I could bear it better,” she 


IN THE MIST. j g i 

sobbed, “ if it had been different, but this 
hurts me so. If I could only go back, and 
be a child again. If I could only pray as I 
used to, — but, when I tiy, it all shuts down 
dark about me. What have I done, to shut 
myself away from the balm of prayer, what 
have I done ? ” 

And with one of her sudden characteristic 
changes, she lifted her head, while a light 
shone from her tear-dimmed eyes, and a half 
smile, sadder than a sigh, hovered about her 
lips as she murmured : 

“Why, of course I can not pray, when I 
can not obey the command, 1 Forgive, if ye 
have aught against any/ and I can not do it 
yet, — no, I can not forgive, — but the hard- 
ness will not go out of my heart till I do.” 

For Lisbeth knew, there was anger in her 
heart, anger that seemed to spring out of a 
sorrow closely akin to repentance, that she 
had ever consented to listen to Sylvester 
Ingham’s subtle suggestions. Those sugges- 
tions, that had led her, for the last few 
months, to ask of her heart when she had 


182 


IN TITE MIST. 


thought of serious truths, not “What do I 
believe?” — but, “What do I not?” 

She resented, while she was yet bowing to 
the influence that had led her to forget, “ that 
it never comes within the range of the Spirit 
of God to gratify idle curiosity, by the presen- 
tation of curious theories ; ” had led her to 
forget, that while the scientists may speculate 
on fossil and strata, descent and origin, the 
spirit of one who would be a follower of 
Christ, must be the spirit of a worshiper, not 
a questioner. J 

Dimly realizing all this, it was no wonder 
that for a time she felt bitterly toward the 
man, who had tempted, and led her thoughts 
to rove from the safe teachings of her father; 
who had led her to strive to put faith in 
knowledge, — falsely so called. “Forgive,” 
and again she wept, as she repeated, “No, I 
can not forgive, — and Ethel, I can not for- 
give her either, — oh, if I could only bring this 
great trouble, this great unkindness, and 
leave it with Christ ; as I used to bring my 
troubles in my childhood, and leave them 


IN THE MIST : 


183 


with my father, — but Christ seems so far off' 
now, — Christ, who used to seem so near when 
I was a child ; I remember I could shut my 
eyes then, and feel almost as though if I 
reached out my hand, it was held in His 
hand of Love, even though I could not see or 
actually feel the clasp, — was that faith ? — but 
that was when I was a child ! ” 

“ I wonder why I think this morning of a 
sentence I read before I left home ; I remem- 
ber it so well. I was in the library, sitting in 
the broad window-seat, and my father was 
writing at his desk. — I wonder why memory 
seems to-day like that cleft up among the 
mountains, where we called aloud, waking 
echoes with our words, that came back to us 
the very same, only softly, like whispers. 
Echoing, echoing through my heart, come 
back to me the words of my beautiful, happy 
day-dream days. — I said, I loved my day- 
dreams ; I said, I was queen of my future, 
because queen of my thoughts, — poor queen ; 
dethroned now. — Where is my crown ? trod- 
den in the dust. — Where are its jewels? all 


I AT. THE MIST. 


184 

strewn and crushed. — Where is my sceptre? 
the fairy wand of love. — Where? — lost and 
broken. 

“ But, that tiresome little sentence keeps 
repeating itself over so in my mind : ‘ When 
any one has offended me, I try to raise my 
soul so high, that the offense can not 
touch it.’ ” 

“ Oh, if I could do that, — but I can not ; 
no, not yet/’ — 

And even as she thus said, the bitterness 
and anger toward Mr. Ingham seemed to 
vanish, from her heart, — and again, woman- 
like, she was striving to blame herself for all 
that had happened ; not him, — not him. 

“ I am so ignorant,” she said ; “ I know so 
little, and he so much, what he said was true ; 
I was sweet enough for a mountain daisy ; 
sweet enough for a summer pastime ; only the 
words hurt me so ; but, I am no flower for 
one who loves as he loves, this great gay 
world, — only it hurts me so.” 

Just here, Lisbeth’s musings were inter- 
rupted, and a little later she had gone down- 


IN THE MIST. 185 

stairs, to be met by the happy New Year 
greetings. 

Gone, with her face a trifle paler than its 
wont ; a tread a bit slower, with a languid 
weariness about it, unlike her usual bird-like 
fleetness, — and with a pride in her heart that 
had sprung into life as quickly as tropical 
plant opens into bloom. 

A pride, that made her strong to hide the 
hurt that had fallen on her, — a determination 
that whatever the man she had trusted might 
be, neither by word or look would she hint 
the secret that had become a pain, and that 
sh.e had concealed when it was a gladness. 

And she felt, too, for love did not die easily 
in Lisbeth’s. heart, that none should blame 
Sylvester Ingham, by any knowledge of his 
fickleness learned from her, — she was as eager 
to hide his weakness, as if it had been some 
treasure ; she even avoided Alexander Gor- 
don, when later in the day she met him, be- 
cause instinctively she felt he knew some- 
thing of it all. 

Though she felt no more curiosity than she 


IN THE MIST. 


1 86 

did at the time, to know how he happened to 
come to her in the park. 

A simple enough occurrence if she had 
asked for jts explanation. He was coming up 
the avenue, when he had met Mr. Ingham, 
who passed him with a slight, hasty recogni- 
tion ; and a cold cynical look still lingering on 
his face, as a sort of echo of his words to Lis- 
beth ; and then, Mr. Gordon had seen her 
standing on the marble steps of her uncle’s 
mansion ; had seen her turn and speed toward 
the park, which she had entered, — and his 
love told him the rest, — and that was why, 
tenderly as a mother would have sought a 
hurt child, he had followed Lisbeth, led her 
home, and parted from her silently on the 
doorstep, and yet, had not left her till the 
door had opened, and he had seen her safe 
across the threshold. 


XXVII. 


I T was only a week after that New Year 
day, that Ethel and Fanny Endicott left 
home, to visit a friend who resided in a dis- 
tant city, and it was the day before their de- 
parture when Ethel said : 

“ It will be so pleasant to meet Mr. Ing- 
ham, you know he is there,” and she looked 
toward Lisbeth as she added, “ one always is 
so glad to meet a home friend, in a strange 
place.” 

But if Ethel sought to read any tell-tale 
story on her cousin’s face, she was disap- 
pointed, for Lisbeth’s head was bowed over 
the dainty piece of’ embroidery, — a tangle of 
flowers and grasses, — which apparently quite 
absorbed her attention. 

“ It seems to me, you do nothing but count 
stitches,” Ethel continued, with an accent of 

(187) 


i88 


IN THE MIST. 


impatience in her tone, and still looking at 
Lisbeth. 

“ I am positively tired, with the sight of 
that piece of work; you have toiled over it 
for the last week, as though it were a life-task 
that must be accomplished.” 

Lisbeth in reply, made one of her strange 
answers, as Ethel called them, saying : 

“ Perhaps it is, — counting stitches ; I won- 
der if it is not a life-work, for I suppose,” she 
added softly, “ our thoughts and deeds are 
but stitches in life’s pattern.” 

4 ‘ Was there ever a girl so full of fancies ? ” 
Ethel responded, “ positively morbid fancies 
I call them, and Mr. Ingham said sometimes 
he thought so too. 

“ Do you know, Lisbeth, he calls you, little 
Puritan, because he says you always tack a 
moral on to everything, just like a boy fast- 
ens a streamer on to his kite. — What are you 
afraid of, little cousin ?"” and Ethel’s tone was 
almost mocking as she asked : 

“ Do you fear, that unless you give us a 
moral, by way of interpretation, your thoughts 


IN THE MIST. jgp 

will be so high, they will fly above us com- 
monplace people ? ” 

Perchance, sharp words would have fol- 
lowed ; for Lisbeth was hasty of temper, and 
wounded at heart ; but at that moment Mrs. 
Endicott entered in a glow of pleasurable ex- 
citement, for she had to announce her sud- 
den decision to accompany her daughters on 
the morrow, and, she said, “ I shall remain 
during January and February ; for, your 
father, Ethel, has telegraphed and written to 
secure rooms at the hotel, and when you girls 
have finished your visit, you are to join me ; 
such a pleasant plan, — all, but the leaving 
you, Lisbeth,” she kindly added ; “ but you 
are such a quiet, busy girl this winter, improv- 
ing your time so wisely, my dear, that you will 
scarcely miss us, and after our return, we will 
have full two months together ; for I will not 
consent to your returning home before May.” 

“ But I think I must go before then,” Lis- 
beth remonstrated ; the longing for home had 
become so intense in her heart during the 
past few days. 


IN THE MIST. 


190 

“So your uncle told me you said to him 
last night,” Mrs. Endicott replied ; “ but I 
will not hear of it. — It makes me shiver to 
even think of that great lonely house by the 
sea ; before the spring brightens it ; no, you 
must not think of such a thing.” 

And then Mrs. Endicott became absorbed 
in her own plans, for sudden departure. 

By noon of the next day every arrange- 
ment was completed ; and the travelers had 
driven from the door, nodding and smiling to 
little Lucille ; who lightly tossed kisses from 
her dimpled hand to speed their journey, as 
she stood by Lisbeth’s side in the drawing- 
room window, to watch the carriage drive 
. away. 

So it happened, that the usually gay com- 
pany-thronged mansion, was left quiet ; except 
as Mr. Andrew Endicott came and went at 
his regular hours ; and as little Lucille woke 
up echoes in the silent deserted rooms, with 
her gay laugh ; flitting about like a glint of 
sunshine, whenever she could escape from the 


IN THE MIST. 


I 9 I 

somewhat rigorous vigilance of the govern- 
ess ; who now filled nurse Nora’s place. 

The January days crept by slowly to Lis- 
beth ; she had resolutely refused to see her 
cousins’ friends, who kindly came at first, 
hoping to cheer her loneliness. — Bright girls 
many of them, with loving, warm hearts, that 
would have comforted her, if she had but 
known them, for she was very lonely, she 
needed comfort ; there were hours when she 
said to herself : 

“ I am tired, — tired of it all.” — And by that 
all, she meant life, — this girl of scarce nine- 
teen years, who had wealth and a home, but 
who was yet so poor, wanting a father’s and 
mother’s love ; needing so sorely that better, 
deeper love, the Heavenly Father’s, to fold 
her safe from the touch of earthly trouble ; 
and who yet did not open her heart to let 
in that love, so willing to enter, if she had 
but sought it. 

February came at last, its first day a Sab- 
bath, a cold, dreary day; the rain fell from 


192 


IN THE MIST. 


morning till night in blinding torrents, min- 
gled with sleet, and now and then great 
feathery snowflakes, that were “ put out,” as 
little Lucille said, “ by the naughty, naughty 
rain-drops/’ 

After dinner, which was earlier on the Sab- 
bath, Mr. Endicott went to his study, and 
Lisbeth and the child into the library, where 
they looked out of the window, watching the 
storm ; and later, the glimmer of lights, that 
shone like stars down the broad avenue ; for it 
was the lamp-lighters’ hour. 

But presently, Lisbeth left the window, and 
drew one of the softly-cushioned chairs be- 
fore the glowing fire in the grate, that filled 
the room with flitting, dancing brightness. It 
reminded her of her home, she used to like so 
well to sit in the fire-light. When a servant 
came to touch the gas-jets of the crystal 
chandelier into a dozen or more flames of 
brightness, she said : 

“ No, leave it dim ; I like it better so ; ” 
and little Lucille, who was wont to wish what- 
ever Lisbeth did, echoed the words, while 


IN THE MIST. 


1 93 


with the winsomeness of a child, she climbed 
into Lisbeth’s arms, and nestled her curly 
head on her shoulder, saying : 

“Tell me a story; a Sunday story; tell me 
all about Esau and Jacob? ” 

And Lisbeth told the story, but Lucille 
wanted more than the details, which she al- 
ready well knew. 

“Tell me,” she asked; “what did Esau's 
birthright mean, — what is a birthright?” ~ 

But before Lisbeth could reply, the child’s 
bed-time came. 

“And I must go,” the little one exclaimed ; 
“ though going to sleep is so tiresome ; ” and 
she rubbed her bright eyes, saying : 

“ I am sure they do not want to shut up, 
only you know, mamma says, they must shut 
every night, when it grows dark, if I want 
them to be bright when I am a young lady, 
like Ethel’s and Fanny’s ; but I would a great 
deal rather have them shine like yours, Lis- 
beth ; only, why,” — a child’s question, — “ do 
your eyes look now as though they saw 
things other people did not? — Have you 

13 


194 


IN THE MIST. 


lost your birthright, and are you looking 
for it ? ” 

And merrily she laughed, the little, thought- 
less child ; calling out as she went dancing 
from the room : 

“ Have you lost your birthright, and are 
you looking for it ? ” 


XXVIII. 


T HE words stand written : “A little child 
shall lead them ; ” and they are Bible 
words. 

11 Have you lost your birthright ; are you 
looking for it ? ” 

Over and over, Lisbeth repeated Lucille’s 
question, and as she repeated it, she felt again 
the stirring in her heart, of a longing that was 
like the longing she used to feel, before, as she 
termed it, she had lost her faith. 

She felt those 

“ Deep-planted yearnings, seeking with a cry 
Their meat from God ; ” 

which come to earnest souls, waking suddenly 
into life, when for a time they have seemed 
silenced, waking 

“ Like infants from their sleep, 
That stretch their arms into the dark, and weep.” 

( 195 ) 


jg6 IN THE MIST. 

Yearnings, that only one Voice can soothe, 
can answer. — 

“ My birthright,” Lisbeth murmured, “ what 
is it? — surely, surely, it is something more 
than the broad acres, the full bank accounts 
my father left me.” 

And in the hush of that hour, it seemed to 
her, as though she heard a voice ; as though 
the whisper in her heart which she had so 
often during the past few months striven to 
silence, spoke out loudly, saying: 

“ Yes, something more, something of dearer 
value than any wealth of land or gold.” 

“ Have I lost it ? ” she softly queried ; “ tell 
me, have I lost it, and for what ? ” 

Unflinchingly she met the answer of that 
voice in her heart, though in its sternness, it 
was like the “ axe at the root of the tree.” 

“ No, not lost it,” it said, “ but dulled and 
dimmed it ; for you accepted gladness by con- 
senting to conceal it, and stooping to give a 
wrong impression regarding it ; when you 
knew by doing thus, you were losing from 
your soul the high standard of right and truth ; 


IN THE MIST. 


19 7 

which your father had bade you guard and 
keep, unsullied and pure. — 

“ You consented, because it was fascinating 
and exhilarating to your intellect ; because 
stimulating to your pride of understanding, to 
listen to words that you knew were leading 
you away from faith in God, — that simple 
trust in Him ; the child’s trust, that is con- 
tent to walk, because He wills it, even though 
it be by a darksome path. 

“You slighted it, because you shut your 
mind against my warning whisper; you chose 
to follow the misty meteors of human coun- 
sel and thought, rather than my voice, — and 
I am conscience, — conscience , that listened 
to, heeded and ‘ cherished, becomes man’s 
glory, while the liberty it gives, is his birth- 
right.’ ” 

But Lisbeth remonstrated. — “ What have I 
done sufficient to dim your light in my soul, 
sufficient to silence your voice ; my decep- 
tion was no great deception ; my wanting to 
find rest and satisfaction for the questions that 
troubled me ; my liking to hear the brilliant 


IN THE MIST. 


I98 

theories of brilliant minds ; it was only what 
hundreds are doing ? ” 

“True enough/’ the heart-voice answered; 
“ but it is not the greatness of the sin, as mor- 
tals count magnitude, that silences my voice 
in the heart, but the sinning against light, — 
and you, Lisbeth, had that light, — you were 
a child of light.” 

And almost it seemed to Lisbeth, — it was a 
time of such high-wrought emotion to her, — as 
though it were her father’s voice, sighing, 
sighing through her heart. 

“Yes, a child of light, and you loved dark- 
ness better than light.” 

True, all true, and Lisbeth knew it, and al- 
most that hour did she resolve : “ I will arise 
and go to my Father, my Heavenly Father; 
I will say unto Him, Father, I have sinned.” 

But only almost did she thus determine, 
for, “Not yet; not yet,” she whispered to 
herself. “ No, I must seek first to understand 
a little more of this great puzzling why of 
life ; sorrow, and wrong ; I must understand 
it better before I can believe in the love of 


IN THE MIST. 


199 


Him who permits it. No, I can not give my 
heart to Christ now, while it is so full of re- 
bellion ; I must wait till it is better, wait till I 
have learned submission ; I can not give it to 
Him with all this bitterness in it,” — and yet 
while thus she said, she knew the bitterness 
would only go, the submission only come, as 
she gave it. 

Yet, though Elizabeth Endicott shut her 
heart that night against the Heavenly gift of 
peace, she never lost the memory of little 
Lucille’s question ; never lost the conscious- 
ness, that when she refused to listen to the 
warning of conscience, she was forfeiting by 
her own act, the Heavenly gift of her birth- 
right ; liberty, through Christ ; who alone can 
lift the soul above the bondage of sin and 
doubt, — the “ Sun of Righteousness,” that 
alone can draw and absorb in its refulgent 
beams, the mists of human doubt and human 
sorrow. 

Lisbeth was so lost in thought, she did not 
hear the opening of the library door, did not 


200 


IN THE MIST . 


notice Alexander Gordon’s entrance. He 
stood full five minutes before the still glow- 
ing fire in the grate, before she heeded his 
presence, and when she did, she hardly re- 
sponded to his kindly words, and half apolo- 
getic excuse for being there. 

“Not finding your uncle in the study,” he 
said, “ I thought he might be here.” 

“ No,” Lisbeth answered, — and she did not 
ask Mr. Gordon to stay, yet he lingered. 

As she looked up at him, standing in the 
warm glow of the fire-light, with the look of 
strength and calm patience on his face, — that 
had become its abiding expression since love 
for her had taken such deep root in his heart, — 
the impulse ; the old feeling she never had de- 
fined, that he could help her in time of per- 
plexity, gained mastery over the shrinking 
from him, that she had felt ever since that last 
evening of the old year. 

And, with something of her former man- 
ner, a half child-like playfulness, blended with 
a sweet, trustful confidence ; that made her, 


IN THE MIST. 


201 


she little knew how dear to Alexander Gor- 
don, she said : 

“ Please do not laugh at me, Mr. Gordon 
but tell me, what is conscience ? — such a Sun- 
day question,” she added, while the earnest- 
ness in her voice and look, contradicted the 
apparent lightness of the last words. 

He stood leaning with his elbow on the 
marble mantel, and looking down at her as 
he answered, and with one of those freaks of 
memory, which we none of us can account 
for, the recollection of him as he stood there, 
was vivid to her, to the very last day of her 
life, as though it had been a portrait that 
every day she could gaze on. 

“ There is an old story,” he said, “of a great 
and good man, who tells a reminiscence of his 
childhood, which will answer your question, 
Miss Lisbeth, better than I can. 

“ * When I was a little boy,’ he says, 1 one 
fine day in spring, my father led me by the 
hand to a distant part of the farm, but soon 
sent me home alone. On the way I had to 


202 


IN THE MIST. 


pass a little pond, then spreading its waters 
wide ; a rhodora in full bloom, a rare flower 
which grew only in that locality, attracted my 
attention, and drew me to the spot. I saw a 
little tortoise sunning himself in the shallow 
water at the roots of the flaming shrub; I 
lifted the stick I had in my hand, to strike 
the harmless thing, for though I had never 
killed any creature, yet I had seen other boys 
do so, and I felt a disposition to follow their 
wicked examples. But all at once, something 
checked my little arm, and a voice within 
me, said clear and loud, “ It is wrong.” I 
held my uplifted stick in wonder at the new 
emotion ; the consciousness of an involun- 
tary, but inward check upon my actions, till 
the tortoise and the rhodora, both vanished 
from my sight. I hastened home and told 
the tale to my mother, and asked her what it 
was that told me it was wrong; she wiped 
a tear from her eye, and taking me in her 
arms, said : 

“‘“Some men call it conscience, but I 
prefer to call it, the voice of God in the soul 


IN THE MIST. 


203 


of man. If you listen and obey it, then it 
will speak clearer and clearer, and always 
guide you right, but if you turn a deaf ear, 
or disobey, then it will fade out, little by 
little, and leave you in the dark, and without 
a guide ” ’ ” 

As Mr. Gordon ceased speaking, Lisbeth, 
she hardly knew why, was weeping quietly, — 
and then, perhaps it was the influence of the 
dim tender light, in the room, the quiet and 
the hush of it ; perhaps because it was a 
relief to speak out the question that had 
been in her heart for weeks ; perhaps the com- 
fort of human companionship and sympathy, 
after having been so lonely ; or all combined, 
that led her to ask, still another question : 

“Tell me,” she said again. — 

“Tell me,” — two little words, that had ever 
prefaced so many of her remarks to Mr. 
Gordon. — 

“Tell me, must we forget injuries, to for- 
give them; you kno\^, it says in the Bible, 
when God forgives for Christ’s sake, sins are 
‘remembered no more, blotted out;’ must 


204 


IN THE MIST. 


we do the same with the sins against our- 
selves, forget, if we really forgive? — For if 
we must, I can not do it,” she added, with 
her old impetuousness of manner. “ No, I 
can not do it, — and till I do, I can not pray.” 

“ There is only one way you can do it, Lis- 
beth,” Mr. Gordon replied, “and that is by 
asking Christ to help you, — ask Him, even if 
you do not call it prayer, and then do not 
look backward to your past, nor onward to 
your future, but only upward, — and remem- 
ber, you can not learn the heavenly language 
all at once, never fully, while here on earth; but 
nevertheless, * it is sweet to stammer one let- 
ter of the Eternal's language, — called forgive- 
ness.’ And I think you can do that even now.” 

“ No, not yet,” Lisbeth replied, “ not yet.” 

As she thus spoke, the door opened, and Mr. 
Andrew Endicott entered ; a minute after- 
ward the room was bright with light, as he 
turned the tiny sparks of subdued radiance 
in the globes of the chandelier into a full bril- 
liancy of glow. 

But in that minute Lisbeth slipped away. 


XXIX. 


I T so often happens, that there come days 
in our lives, by which we are prepared for 
what is coming, by some circumstance or 
conversation scarcely heeded at the time, — 
days, that afterward shine in memory like 
beacon fires, flashing light from hill-top to 
hill-top of our after days, even though they 
leave the valleys between in shadow and 
darkness. That Sabbath-evening talk with 
Mr. Gordon, proved thus to Elizabeth Endi- 
cott, not that she stayed up on the hill-top to 
which he led her, for alas, she went far down 
into valley-lands of mists and shadow after it. 

But the day following was full of earnest 
thoughts, illumined, many of them, with a 
clearer light, than she had for long known. 
Yet, Lisbeth’s story of that day’s thought and 
experience, was much the same in substance 

as the old story of the Garden and the Tree. 

(205) 


206 


IN THE MIST. 


Her eyes were opened ; conscience opened 
them ; but like Eve of old, she looked at sell 
rather than the Lord ; and all self could show, 
was a heart so unlike the heart of her child- 
hood, a heart full of rebellion and doubt, a 
heart that had lost its rich treasure of truth. 
— For wrong doing is ever so much a thing 
of comparison ; to the one of high aim and 
lofty soul, a slight error is as great as some 
deed of evil import to one whose standard is 
mean and dwarfed. 

And looking at self, Lisbeth shut herself 
from the Light again, though she was so near 
it, for, — “ How can the sense of what we are , 
ever bring us to God, if not accompanied by 
the faith of what God is ? ” 

Many are led astray by this ; they think con- 
science will lead them to God, and because it 
is God’s voice in the heart, it does give birth 
to certain efforts toward realizing the condi- 
tion which it desires; but alone, it can not 
lift out of darkness, for we repeat, not the 
consciousness of what we are, but the revela- 
tion of what God is, can lift us up above 


IN THE MIST . 


20 7 


self, and we can only gain that revelation 
through the cross of Christ, only gain it by 
“looking unto Jesus.” 

Almost as on the evening before, did Lis- 
beth lift that gaze of faith ; almost did she 
again determine to leave the questions that 
puzzled her, with Him ; but only almost, and 
yet the light from that half determination 
shone on her face, when she entered the 
drawing-room late in the afternoon, to greet 
her uncle’s friends, for Mr. Endicott had in- 
vited guests to dine that day. 

Great was Lisbeth’s pleasure to find them 
old friends of her father’s and her own. — 
Judge and Mrs. Hancock, whose residence 
was but a few miles distant from the Grange 
(Lisbeth’s home by the sea). She had laid 
aside for that evening her wonted robe of 
heavy mourning, wearing in its place a soft, 
snowy-white cashmere. 

Her father had always liked to see her in 
white, and it was with a thought of him, she 
had chosen the dress. 

Lisbeth remembered, too, Mrs. Blinn’s tell 


208 


IN THE MIST. 


ing her, of how her mother during all that 
year of married life, had worn naught but 
white ; and of how Once, Mrs. Blinn had un- 
folded and shown her the dainty garments 
laid away so carefully, with lavender and rose- 
leaves in the cedar chest in the store-room. — 
India muslins, fine as gossamer, with delicate 
frills of quaint old lace for summer wear; 
costly fabrics of china crdpe, for the cooler 
days of autumn and spring; with soft cash- 
meres like her own for winter. 

“ I would so like to look like my mother,” 
she said, as she fastened her still only orna- 
ment, the golden star, that had been her 
father’s gift on her sixteenth birthday. 

She never looked more lovely than she did 
then ; the hurt of Sylvester Ingham’s faith- 
lessness was still as keen in her heart, and the 
bitterness of an undefined, but recognized 
treachery on Ethel’s part was still there too, 
— but somehow, that day, she had succeeded 
in overlaying Mr. Ingham’s fault with blame 
for herself, and “ I can bear it,” she said, “ if 
I need not blame him.” 


IN THE MIST. 


209 


She clung so to her ideal of the man she 
loved ; clung so to her dream of all she 
thought him, and she was at an age, when 
dreams are easily confused with realities, — 
she had felt, too, almost a thrill of genuine 
forgiveness for Ethel ; and Lisbeth’s heart 
and feelings had always had a way of reflect- 
ing themselves on her fair face ; thus no won- 
der the half peace in her heart shone there. 

The dinner was a cheerful, informal meal ; 
Mr. Endicott did not care as his wife did for 
the established rules of etiquette, and when 
the substantial courses were removed, and the 
table was glowing at last like a smiling center 
of blooming flowers and tropical fruits, he 
dismissed the servants, while he and his guests 
lingered to enjoy a full hour of pleasant inter- 
course. 

Little Lucille was sent for, though it was 
late for the child to appear down-stairs ; Mrs. 
Hancock had begged for her presence ; she 
looked like a fairy child, as she sat on her 
father’s knee, with her golden curls resting 
against his shoulder, and her bright, wide- 

14 


210 


IN THE MIST. 


open eyes, wandering from one and another 
of the smiling countenances that surrounded 
the table. 

Alexander Gordon made one of the com- 
pany, and it so filled his heart with gladness, 
to see Lisbeth brightening under the genial 
influence of her old friends, that he laid aside 
his customary reserve when among strangers, 
and not one of them all was so bright and 
keen in brilliancy of wit and thought. 

The smile with which Lisbeth had replied 
to some word of his, was still lingering about 
her lips, as sunshine plays over flowers, when 
her uncle said abruptly : 

“ Oh, Lisbeth, I forgot to tell you a budget 
of news came to me this morning in your 
aunt’s letter, and chief and foremost, what do 
you think? ” 

“ Indeed, uncle, I do not know,” she an- 
swered. 

“Well!” — and Mr. Endicott only half 
looked at her as he replied : “ Nothing less 

than Ethel’s engagement to ” and as he 

spoke, Lisbeth’s heart seemed to stand still ; 


IN THE MIST. 


2 1 1 


she felt a sudden faintness, everything grew 
dim before her, the color faded from her 
cheeks, the light from her eyes ; it was a mo- 
mentary feeling, almost over before her uncle 
had added, — “ to Sylvester Ingham.” 

And then, Mr. Endicott turned from Lis- 
beth to explain to Mrs. Hancock that Mr. 
Ingham was an old friend ; to say, as his wife 
expressed it in her letter : “ It was a most 
suitable engagement in every respect, though 
he was somewhat older than Ethel.” 

After that, the conversation went on gaily 
as before, only Alexander Gordon had noted 
the sudden paling of Lisbeth’s face, the lift- 
ing of her little hand before her eyes, as 
though to shut away some sight of pain, or 
to hide it. — The very same motion that had 
touched him so, that evening when they 
passed under the flaring gas-light, when leav- 
ing the park. 

That was the only sign she gave, — and 
in less time than it takes to tell, she was talk- 
ing again, even smiling, as she replied to a 
question of Judge Hancock’s. — But there 


212 


XN THE MIST. 


had come a certain sharpness into her tone, 
unlike the wonted song-like music of her 
voice ; while her eyes that before her uncle’s 
words, had been so bright with a soft lust- 
rous light, flashed now like fire-sparks ; and 
her cheeks glowed again, but with an un- 
usual color, while she assumed a sudden dig- 
nity and poise, quite unlike herself. 

No sooner did little Lucille’s wandering 
gaze rest on Lisbeth, than she saw this quick 
change ; and with a child’s delight in what 
seemed to reveal a new beauty in the cousin 
she loved, and a child’s unconsciousness of 
causing pain, eagerly she exclaimed : 

“ Papa, look, look at cousin, what has come 
into her face; I think,” — and she laughed at 
her own words, “ she looks like a queen to- 
night ; I think, I will call her Queen Bess.” 

And, — Lisbeth, the girl who till so recently 
had been as unlearned in concealment, as a 
bird is in the science of song, smiled at the 
words ; while with a gracious inclination of 
her head, she said : 

“ And I will call you in return, Lucille, our 


IN THE MIST. 


213 

fairy, — come, little fairy, lead Mrs. Hancock 
to the drawing-room.” 

And, she rose from the table, with a new 
dignity and pride, that for the time seemed 
to transform her. 

Mr. Endicott and Judge Hancock soon fol- 
lowed the ladies, and only half an hour later 
Lisbeth was left alone ; for her uncle and his 
friends had an evening engagement, and’ Mr. 
Gordon had excused himself from the dinner- 
table, without even entering the drawing- 
room. 

Left alone ! — and then, — she was but a girl, 
a young thing, — it was her first experience 
in trusting, and being deceived, that bitterest 
of all life’s lessons, — for till that hour, she 
had had the lingering comfort of excusing 
Mr. Ingham ; but now, that was taken from 
her, — was it strange, that there closed in 
about her heart then, mists heavier and 
darker, than any that had been before ? — 

Strange, that the old doubts of God’s love, 
when He permitted wrong and sorrow, doubts 
fostered by Mr. Ingham’s scepticisms, to 


214 


I IV THE MIST. 


which she had hearkened, came flooding into 
her memory, swiftly as clouds float across the 
blue sky when driven by wind and storm. 

Was it strange? 

And yet, in that time of darkness, she 
whispered words she had learned in her 
childhood, — learned with only lip-knowledge, 
never by heart experience. 

“ All things work together for good to 
them that love God/V-but as she repeated 
them, bitterly she exclaimed, “Yes, but the 
promise is only to them who love God, — 
and, — I do not love Him.” — And then, — the 
mists grew heavier, more dense about Lis- 
beth, — the Light that had been so near her 
only a few hours before, seemed all shut 
away. 

But, — there never was a mist yet, — nor a 
cloud, that had not a light behind them ! 


XXX. 


I F Mr. Andrew Endicott guessed aught of 
Lisbeth’s story, he gave no hint of it the 
next morning when they met, though uncon- 
sciously, an added tenderness crept into his 
manner toward her, — a something that re- 
minded her of her father, — as he held her tell- 
tale face between his hands, and gave her his 
good-morning kiss. 

A wan, weary little face, for the sudden 
strength of a spirit too proud to show it suf- 
fered, that had shone from her eyes the night 
before, went out almost as speedily as it had 
flashed into life. 

“ I have a favor to ask, uncle,” she said ; 
“ may I return home next week with Judge 
and Mrs. Hancock?” 

“Go home,” Mr. Endicott replied, “why, 

(215) 


21 6 


IN THE MIST . 


your aunt and cousins are to arrive that very 
day/’ 

“ Yes, — I know,” — Lisbeth murmured 
wearily, “ but may I go ? ” 

And he consented, for something in her 
look pleaded more effectively than many 
words. So it was decided, — and that very 
morning, Lisbeth sent flying across the wide 
stretch of miles that divided her from home, 
a swift-winged message, to Mrs. Blinn, telling 
only a week from that day, she would be 
there. 

A missive that brought much consterna- 
tion to the good housekeeper, for as is the 
way with love, spite her joy at the thought 
of Lisbeth’s speedy coming, she fell into 
wondering what brought the child so unex- 
pectedly, — for child she still called her, — sur- 
mising a thousand reasons, all as far from the 
truth as the flowers of summer were, from the 
dry leafless stalks of the garden borders. 

“ Any way,” as she told her still prime 
counselor and confidant, Mrs. Grant, “ it will 
be a great comfort to have the child safe 


IN THE MIST 


21 7 


again in the home nest, though, poor lamb, 
how she will ever stand missing her father, 
when she comes back to the loneliness, is 
more than ever I can tell,” and, — kindly 
women that they were, — they let fall more 
than one tear of sympathy for the lonely 
girl. 

Mrs. Blinn’s efforts to give a look of cheer 
to the old home, were unwearying, and she 
was warmly aided in them by the faithful 
servants, who loved Lisbeth nearly as well as 
she did. 

Touchingly tender were those prepara- 
tions, shared by the friendly neighbors, and 
even the fisher-folk ; for more than one 
brought some simple offering to make it look 
“ a bit cheery to Miss Lisbeth,” as old Captain 
Haight, the one-armed sailor, said, as he de- 
posited on the table, a glowing branch of red 
coral, across which by ingenious skill, had 
been fastened a miniature leaf-like spray of 
pure white. 

Every village child, as well as fisher lad 
and lassie, loved Captain Haight, and follow- 


218 


IN THE MIST. 


ing his example, they, too, brought tokens of 
welcome for Lisbeth. 

Thus a great heap of wave-polished stones, 
and shells, some bright with rainbow bright- 
ness, some dull and lustreless, lay on the hall 
table mingled with tangled bits of dried sea- 
weeds, of all the varying colors those flowers 
of the sea catch with the changing seasons. 

Blooming plants were rare in winter in that 
bleak region, and yet, there were no lack of 
them to enliven the Grange on Lisbeth’s 
arrival ; for the village matrons, and maidens, 
vied with one another in floral offerings, taken 
from their own sunny window-nooks, and left 
with Mrs. Blinn, “ for Miss Lisbeth.” 

There were no rare plants among them like 
those that adorned Mr. Andrew Endicott’s 
home, — yet, were they any less dear, any less 
beautiful for that? For, — what makes a 
flower’s worth, — the love it holds, or the 
beauty ? — and there were, too, generous 
leaved geraniums, all glowing with their 
scarlet blooms, and calla-lilies that were just 
opening wide their stately fonts of pureness. 


IN THE MIST. 


219 


“ Easter flowers,” Lisbeth used to call the 
lilies, — would she do it now, would she as 
then, remember the Easter gladness they 
heralded, before the day came ? Alas, no, for 
her heart was shut against the comfort of 
Easter’s glad heaven-born assurance, — “I 
know that my Redeemer liveth.” 

The Doctor’s library had been closed all 
winter, so had Lisbeth’s room; but without 
delay at the news of her speedy return, every 
blind was thrown wide open, to catch the 
fleeting rays of the coveted winter sunshine. 

Great fires, too, were kindled on the wide 
open hearths, — and treasures taken from 
closet arid sideboard, and brought into the 
light again, while books were laid upon the 
tables ; and chairs, lounges, and sofas un- 
covered. 

This was how they made ready for her, — 
made ready with such a zestful eagerness, to 
have it all as cheerful as it could be, in a 
home so desolated, that the week flew by to 
Mrs. Blinn and her assistants, while to Lis- 
beth it seemed well-nigh endless. 


220 


IN THE MIST. 


The longest week of all her life she thought, 
but the hour for departure came at last. 

During that week, she had moved about 
with so weary a step, such a worn, startled 
look on her pale face, that more than one 
asked : 

“ Are you ill, Miss Endicott ? ” — words that 
her uncle repeated constantly, and yet she 
uttered no word of explanation; she braved 
the penalty of his misunderstanding, and in- 
terpreting the change that had come over 
her, to jealousy of Ethel, or some girlish 
caprice, rather than by a word let blame fall 
on Mr. Ingham, saying to herself over and 
over, “ I will not tell in my sorrow, the secret 
I promised to keep in my joy; and I brought 
it all on myself, all on myself! ” 

Sorry comfort, but she always repeated 
those words after murmuring: 

“ I never will tell why I am changed.*’ 

If Lisbeth’s nature had been less earnest, 
she would have suffered less; but all the in- 
tensity of her feelings were wrought upon 
by the sequel to Mr. Ingham’s wearying of 


IN THE MIST. 


221 


her, which in her humbleness she had ac- 
cepted as but natural, proving to be, after all, 
his desire to engage himself to another. 
“ And did he say the same things to Ethel as 
to me?” she wondered. 

There was a contradictoriness in Lisbeth’s 
longing to go home, for she half shrank from 
it too ; and this she fully realized as the day 
of her journey waned, and the swiftly speed- 
ing train drew near the low marsh lands that 
skirted the approach to G. 

A contradictoriness, that came from her 
consciousness of how much she had changed 
since she bade farewell to the familiar place. 

“ I am not the Lisbeth that went away,” 
she sighed ; “ not Lisbeth whom my father 
called his Lily-bell ; not kindly Mrs. Blinn’s 
Lady-bird, but a cold, frozen-hearted Eliza- 
beth, a girl, who has trusted and been deceived, 
no longer a petulant wayward child ; naughty 
one minute, sorry the next, but hard and un- 
forgiving now; a girl whose heart is stained 
by having acted a falsehood, — and my father 
loved truth so ; — whose heart is shut away 


222 


IN THE MIST. 


from God, by having admitted and hearkened 
to theories and thoughts, that have bewil- 
dered, — oh, so bewildered me ; till now I 
hardly know what I do believe in ; ” and her 
tears fell like rain, as she leaned her weary 
head against the frame of the car window, and 
looked out on the gathering darkness. 

All suddenly it came back to her, how as 
she went away from her childhood’s home, 
she had made what her girlish fancy had 
called, a “ heart-grave,” in which to treasure 
the dear, dear memories of her father’s love ; 
a place embalmed with loving, grateful 
thoughts, more fragrant than any flowers of 
earthly bloom. 

“And now,” she said to herself, “ I am com- 
ing home again, with another grave, — poor 
little heart, — a grave, over which there are no 
flowers to strew. It is all so changed since I 
went away, for then, ” 

Even as Lisbeth thus thought, warm arms 
were clasped about her, her head pillowed 
once more on kindly Mrs. Blinn’s shoulder ; 
and then, a hurried good-bye to Judge and 


TV THE MIST 


223 


Mrs. Hancock ; a welcome from many a fa- 
miliar voice, followed by a swift drive ; the 
turn at the well-known gate, — the threshold 
crossed ; the glow of fire-light and warmth, 
the home-glow, and Lisbeth’s second journey 
was ended. 


XXXI. 


I N Elizabeth Endicott’s heart, as a tiny 
“ blade of green,” was the first upspring- 
ing of faith in God, where had been doubt 
and rebellion. — But it was a tender thing, so 
slight and feeble ; not for long did it push 
its way through the mists of unbelief, which 
brooded like birds of ill omen about her. And 
yet, its rooting and budding made one of the 
three events, that like head-lands on some 
low-lying shore, stood out in bold prominence 
amid the events of the quiet years ; full five, 
that followed her return home. 

Not empty years, though they seemed so 
uneventful, so monotonous, with their days 

“ One after one to-morrow like to-day.” 

Doctor Endicott’s long-ago words had 

proved true, when in reply to Mrs. Blinn’s 
(224) 


IN THE MIST. 


225 

remonstrance, that the child needed disci- 
pline, he had said : 

“ The discipline will come in good time, 
and the self-control too ; my little Lisbeth 
has plenty of force and character.” 

For though after her return home, she went 
about for a time like one in a dream, with a 
languid indifference to all that surrounded 
her, spring had scarce melted into summer, 
before her healthful, pure nature asserted 
itself, and she bravely took up her customary 
occupation ; resumed her visits of kindly in- 
terest among the sick and poor in the hamlet 
below the cliff, and among the village people. 

And though what had once been pleasure, 
had now become a duty, that she performed 
with a dull mechanical sense of routine, her 
way was ever so sweet and winsome ; she won 
love, even though those days she was often 
fitful in temper, wayward in caprice, some- 
times sad and silent, sometimes mockingly 
gay. 

She resumed her studies, too, and she 
opened the long-closed piano, and now and 

15 


226 


IN THE MIST ; 


then, though but rarely, she swept her fingers 
across the chords of her harp, bringing out 
wild, plaintive strains of contradictory har- 
mony. 

But she never once all those years, took 
into her hands the palette and brushes, she 
used to love so well. 

“ I can paint no more pictures,” she said, 
when Mrs. Blinn urged her to resume the old 
favorite amusement, adding softly : “ I can 
not, for I dream no more dreams.” 

Mrs. Blinn, with the instinctive delicacy 
born out of her love for the girl, never asked 
Lisbeth the cause of her sudden return home, 
much as she longed to know ; and tacitly they 
agreed not to talk of the months of her 
absence. 

But once, just as the spring was budding, 
the good woman lingered by the half-open 
door of Lisbeth’s room ; she was within, 
kneeling by the window, in her old child-time 
position, with her elbows on the broad sill, 
and her face on her hands ; — she was looking 
seaward, and as in the child-time, she was 


IN THE MIST. 


227 


singing as she looked, — a low song, — quaint 
verses, for which she had found a melody in 
her own heart ; — and, — somehow, from that 
song, Mrs. Blinn knew as much of the story 
of Lisbeth’s trial as she needed, to make her 
tender as a mother to the young thing. 

The song was only this : 

“ There grows an ash by my bour door. 

And a’ its boughs are buskit braw 
In fairest weeds o’ simmer green. 

And birds sit singing on them a’. 

But cease your sangs, ye blithesome birds. 

An o’ your liltin’ let me be ; 

Ye bring deid simmers frae their graves 
To weary me, to weary me ! 

" There grows an ash by my bour door, 

And a’ its boughs are clad in snaw ; 

The ice-drap hings at ilka twig, 

And sad the nor’ wind soughs thro’ a’. 

Oh cease thy mane, thou norlan’ wind ; 

And 0’ thy wailin’ let me be, 

Thou brings deid winters frae their graves 
To weary me, to weary me ! 
»•••••• • 

“ Oh I wad fain forget them a’ ; 

Remember’d guid but deepens ill. 

As gleids 0’ licht far seen by nicht, 

Mak’ the near mirk but mirker still. 


228 


IN THE MIST. 


Then silent be, thou dear auld tree — 

O’ a' thy voices let me be ; 

They bring the deid years frae their graves 
To weary me, to weary me ! ” 

The “ new bright thing,” which came to 
Lisbeth, during those five years, she did not 
recognize till they had ended, though all the 
time it lay across her pathway. It came from 
a brief interview with Alexander Gordon. — 
And the flowers, that in her heart, kept their 
“ Sabbath-rest,” did not bloom till those years 
had ended too. 

They sprang from a sermon by Mr. Grant, 
that was followed by, and linked with a talk 
with old Captain Haight, the hero of the 
cliff, — prefaced by, — the crown of sermon and 
talk, — a time of communing with her own 
heart, and her Saviour. — After which, for 
Elizabeth Endicott, there were no more 
mists, no more half lifting of down-shutting 
fog, but clear Light. — And yet, life was full 
of storms for her again, sorrow encompassed 
her. 

Alexander Gordon came often to the 


IN THE MIST. 


229 


Grange during those years. The care of 
Doctor Endicott’s estate involved it ; and 
though Lisbeth was saved all possible 
thought, after she came of age, consulta- 
tions with her were sometimes necessary, as 
well as her signature to the long, dull law 
papers, that she always said, were written in 
a dead language to her. 

Though their meetings were so frequent, 
Mr. Gordon had never told Lisbeth of his 
love ; something in her manner, a frankness, 
blended with a certain reserve, always silenced 
him even when he thought to speak. 

But there came a spring-day, when at last 
he did. 

It was one of those fair days, when the 
grass seemed never so green ; when anemones 
blue and white, and early violets, starred the 
turf ; when about everything there seemed 
hovering 

“ That sense of distance, vague, and vast, and wide ; 

Of boundless freedom, endless room for growth.” 

Softly and gently its influence stole into 


230 


IN THE MIST : 


Lisbeth’s heart ; she had always been recep- 
tive to Nature’s teachings, and though she 
knew that Mr. Gordon (who had spent the 
day at the Grange on business) was to leave 
by the evening train, she lingered, even after 
the twilight began to gather, out in the open 
air, everything was so sweet to her. She sat 
down on the low stone wall, which served as 
a boundary between the garden, and the 
grassy common beyond. It was there that 
Mr. Gordon joined her. 

“ Are you tired, Lisbeth,” he said gently, 
as he came and stood by her side ; “ tired, 
child?” 

He had fallen into the way of being tender 
to her, — and he had always treated her as a 
child. — Did he think of her as anything 

more? Lisbeth had never asked herself 

that question. But, then he told 

her. — 

And she was so lonely, — her heart was still 
so sad, though her outward manner had 
grown cheerful, that though she said nay to 
his words, though she shook her head as 


IN THE MIST. 


231 


he repeated them, she left her hand, — her 
little hand, in his, — and they were silent ; 
while the twilight deepened, but it was a ten- 
der, almost glowing twilight that closed about 
them at the ending of that spring-tide day. 

Was Lisbeth thinking what she was doing? 
— Did she mean aught by her mute accept- 
ance of Alexander Gordon’s words, even while 
she said nay to them ? 

In truth she did not. 

And yet, — on the morrow, if Mrs. Blinn 
had listened as she had one day nigh five 
years by-gone to Lisbeth’s song, she would 
perchance have known, what Lisbeth herself 
did not then recognize ; for as she knelt again, 
before her window, looking out sea -ward, 
through the budding boughs of the gently 
swaying ash, softly she sang once more, a 
song addressed not to the old tree this time, 
but to a tear-drop that rested on her hand : 

“ What’s this ? A tear, one only ? 

It blurs and troubles my gaze. 

In my eye it has hung and lingered, 

A relic of olden days. 


232 


IN THE MIST. 


** It had many shining- sisters, 

But away they all had passed — 

Passed with my torments and rapture 
In night on the driving blast. 

“ Like a breath my very love, too. 

Has faded and flown alas ! 

So now, old, lonely tear-drop, 

’Tis time thou too should pass ! ” 

“ Such a foolish little song,” she said, as 
it ended, and another tear fell, — and yet, she 
smiled, — though not for weeks afterward did 
she analyze what had led her to hum over 
those lines, that she had read in a corner of a 
village newspaper. 


XXXII. 


L ISBETH’S birthday again! — Lisbeth, 
whom we knew as a child, come at last 
to the twenty-third year of her life. 

A June day, with a dawning as sweet as 
the dawning of that eighteenth birthday, that 
stood for the record of so much to her. 

Mrs. Blinn placed flowers on her table as 
she had done then; — June roses, — for every 
season since had brought blossoms, yet never 
the same roses; for flowers like life, never 
twice yield the same blooms, — just as the 
sunshine after storms, is never the same sun- 
shine that preceded them. 

Would we ask to have it ? — or do we learn, 
in the pause-places between the blooming of 
the roses, between the storms and the sun- 
shine, that which makes us say : “ It is better 
as it is — better.” 

That year of 1861, the day fell on the 

(233) 


234 


IN THE MIST. 


Sabbath, and Lisbeth could but wonder as 
she listened to Mr. Grant’s morning sermon, 
if he remembered the date, and if she had 
been in his thoughts as he prepared the dis- 
course. 

She had held herself aloof from the old 
pastor during all the years since her return 
home ; she knew she was far away from him 
in sympathy ; for though now and then, a 
glimmer of light had broken like a glint of 
brightness through the mists of doubt that 
encompassed her, there were still many per- 
plexities in her heart, and she felt Mr. Grant 
could not help solve them, and yet he did 
that day. 

The subject of his sermon was : “ Light in 
Darkness.” 

Such a contradictory subject, Lisbeth 
thought, as he announced it. — His preface was : 

“ Let man be silent, when God is dealing 
with him, for he can not fathom God’s inscru- 
table wisdom.’V-And he set forth, how as 
intelligence dawns, we find ourselves hedged 
about by mystery, how we reach out after 


IN THE MIST. 


235 


knowledge, as children reach out after a rain- 
bow, — and grasp, nothing. — Why ? — because 
God purposely baffles our search? — No, for 
“ He calls us to walk with Him in light. He 
has set His works about us, to be a revelation 
to us, of His power and glory. His word He 
gives us, to be the expression of His will and 
character, and to bring us into acquaintance 
with Himself. — His Spirit He gives us, to be 
a teacher and illuminator within ; while by all 
His providential works, He is training intel- 
ligence in us, and making us capable of 
knowledge.” Thus, not with God, but with 
our own hearts, lies the doubting and the 
darkness, that shuts us away from Him. 

And in simple language, Mr. Grant had 
dwelt on the impossibility that mere human 
intelligence should learn “ in a few short 
years to master the knowledge of God, and 
His universal kingdom ; then, on Christ’s 
word : “ I am the way, the truth, and the life ; 
he that hath seen Me, hath seen the Father.” — 

“We would see Jesus,” softly the old pas- 
tor said : “ ‘And then though the light of His 


IN THE MIST. 


236 

felt presence in our souls, may not take the 
form of a solving of all mystery, a filling of 
every darkness with perfect light, yet he has 
had little experience of God, who has not 
often felt how sometimes, with a question 
still unanswered, a doubt in the soul un- 
solved, the Father will fold about His doubt- 
ing child, a sense of Himself so deep, so true, 
so self-witnessing, that the child is content to 
carry his unanswered question, because of the 
unanswerable assurance of his Father which 
he has received.’ ” 

“ Lift then your gaze to Christ, earnestly 
Mr. Grant pleaded, “for not one look to Him 
will fail of a recognition ; and in the darkness 
of your now clouded souls, He will let fall 
rays of the blessed light, that only shines 
where FAITH abides. — The light that seems so 
far off from you now, but that is so near. 

“ Eyes looking down, — eyes looking up ; — 
hearts thinking of self, and seifs unworthi- 
ness ; hearts remembering Christ, and Christ’? 
work of love ; they are what plunge the soul 
in darkness, or lift it into light. 


IN THE MIST. 


23 7 


“ Look up then, — up to Him ; and though 
your onward path may be rough, faith will 
reveal beyond the storms and clouds of earth, 
that Heavenly City, where they have ‘ no 
need of the sun, neither of the moon, for the 
glory of God doth lighten it, and the Lamb 
is the light thereof.’ 

“ But remember, only by looking to Jesus, 
with faith in your heart, can you reach out 
and take His hand, and be lifted above 
earth’s shadows, into this spiritual day. — 
Never by entering the 1 field of supposed 
revelation ’ will you find it, for mysteries 
there are like forest trees, reaching ever one 
above another, higher and higher. 

“ 1 Only by obeying Jesus will you under- 
stand Jesus; not by studying Him, but by 
doing His will, shall you learn how divine He 
is. Obedience completes itself in understand- 
ing.’ — And, ‘when led by Christ, we see 
God, it is as if the stunted, flowerless plants, 
grew tall enough to stand up and look 
across all the miles that lie between, and 
see the glory of the perfect plant as it 


238 IN THE mist. 

blooms in unhindered luxuriance in its south- 
ern home.’ ” 

This was in substance Mr. Grant's sermon ; 
a sermon that was largely gathered from full 
and frankly acknowledged quotations from 
thinking men, in the thinking world ; for the 
old pastor felt, perhaps thus he could at- 
tract and rivet Lisbeth’s attention, where 
words of his own might fail. 

And her attention he did rivet, so earnestly, 
that in the afternoon of that quiet Sabbath, 
she took her Bible in her hand, and sought 
her favorite seat, a crevice in the cliff, where 
she was quite hidden from sight, and yet 
could look miles and miles away across the 
wide ocean, and up into the wider sky. 

As she passed down the narrow path that 
led to this retreat, she repeated two scraps of 
poetry that she had learned long ago, the 
first : 

“ How perplext 
Grows belief ! 

Well ! this clay-cold clod 
Was man’s heart ! 

Crumble it ; and what comes next ? 

Is it God ? ” 


IN THE MIST. 


239 

The other lines followed as a sort of amen 
to the foregone : 

“ Thou art more than all 

The shrines that hold Thee ; and our wisest creeds 

Are but the lispings of a prattling child 

To spell the Infinite.” 

And then, Lisbeth repeated the Heavenly- 
inspired words : “ God so loved the world, 
that He gave His only begotten Son, that 
whosoever believeth in Him, should not 
perish.” 

And He has promised, she murmured: 
“ Whosoever cometh unto Him, He will in 
nowise cast out.” 

“ Lord, help me to come.” 

That was her prayer that hour. 

Thus it happened, that when Elizabeth 
Endicott turned homeward ; in her soul, where 
doubts had been so many, there was peace at 
last. 

No more mists, no more shadows for her, 
she was in sunshine. — No more trying to 
make herself worthy; but only Christ, and 
His righteousness was now her plea. 


XXXIII. 


/^\N the summit of the cliff Lisbeth met 
old Captain Haight, and then it was 
that she had that talk with him which she 
afterward linked with the memory of Mr. 
Grant’s sermon. 

“You have been seeing Sunday sights, I 
reckon, Miss Lisbeth, judging from the shining 
on your face ; ” were the old man’s greeting 
words. 

And softly Lisbeth replied : 

“I hope I am going to see them all the 
time now ; — week days too, Captain Haight, 
I have been asking God to keep me in the 
Light.” 

“ Well, child, He will, if you ask Him ; but 
mind you remember, there’s a difference be- 
tween seeking to enter into it, and striving to.” 

After a second, Captain Haight spoke 

(240) 


IN THE MIST. 


241 

again, and continued without pause for many 
minutes: 

“And so you are going,” he said, “to 
set out as a Zionward pilgrim? Have you 
counted the cost, Miss Lisbeth? Your jour- 
ney will be a up-hill climb all the way ; you 
see it can’t nohow be otherwise, for the life 
you are entering on is a Higher life than 
that you’ve been a leading ; and no one ever 
yet went up higher without striving for it. 

“ I’m a poor man, unlearned as you know ; — 
there aint so much as a commentator’s volume 
in my house, though nowadays the world 
is full of explanations of Holy Writ, folks 
tell me ; — explanations that make the path to 
Heaven so plain and smooth like, there don’t 
seem to be no narrow way left no more. 

“ But, I am a wandering ; I was a saying, it 
would be a up-hill climb to you all the way. 
— Well, you always was a good climber from 
a child, specially when ye set your mind to it ; 
and in this case you aint got to climb alone, 
for always there’s the Hand, reaching down 
from Heaven to help you up, and over the 
16 


242 


IN THE MIST. 


rough places ; and the smooth too, for I 
reckon you’ll need aid every step of the way. 
— And now, aint it wonderful like, — you can 
always have it just for the asking, and you 
will find, 1 if you do right, where you fear a 
yawning chasm, and a foaming torrent to 
cross, God will provide a bridge’ for you. 
— He always does, I say, for them that trusts 
Him, and I speak from nigh on to fifty years 
experience.” — “ It’s my impression,” Captain 
Haight continued, “ though as I was a say- 
ing, I aint got no learning, that there is a 
great significance in the frequent mention of 
mounts, and mountains in Holy Scripture.— 
Now think on it a bit ; just take an instance 
or two, beginning with Moses receiving the 
Law on Sinai, and then afterwards, you know 
he caught that glimpse of the Promised 
Land, from Pisgah’s summit. — 

“ But with no more tarrying in the Old 
Testament, just look on to the New, and 
think how the Lord Jesus honored the 
mounts. — You remember His sermon, — and 
you remember too, how when the Devil 


IN THE MIST . 


243 


tempted the Holy One, he led Him to the 
top of a high mount apart ; there was the 
Transfiguration hill too.” 

And the old man’s voice was full of rever- 
ent awe, as he added, “ Above all, you re- 
member Calvary ; — and ye see, Miss Lisbeth, 
it was by going up, climbing up, every one of 
them summits was reached. 

“ I have my thoughts too,” said Captain 
Haight, “ about that verse regarding the val- 
ley of the shadow of death ; I know folks say 
it means that time, when the mortal part of a 
man is slipped off from him, like as a butter- 
fly slips out from a chrysalis, that it may soar 
away; dying here , as you might express it, 
to live there — And reverently the old man 
pointed upward ; “ but to my mind, it stands 
as a type of the consciousness of one’s sins, and 
wanderings from the Lord, which come over 
one, as blinding as the darkness of the most 
shut-in valley ever I saw, when they pass 
through such an experience as yours has 
been this afternoon I reckon ; for somehow, 
the light on your face is that light which 


244 


IN THE MIST. 


follows after darkness, which comes when 
one has been a passing through the valley of 
self-surrender to His will ; and a finding His 
rod and staff a support, and help, a lifting 
one, like, out of the shadows that arise from 
remembering ones sins, into the sunshine of 
His forgiving love ; leastways I take it for 
granted, this has been what you have been a 
passing through, Miss Lisbeth. — But I reckon 
you have heard enough of the old man’s 
preaching for one while, and yet one more 
thing I would like to call your attention to ; 
it is this, that like Noah of old, Miss Lisbeth, 
the Lord this day has lifted you out of your 
past, and folded you, poor tired child that 
you was before, safe in the Ark of His Love. 
— But He has given you as He did Noah, 
and does to all who enter that ark through 
the Door Christ Jesus, but one look-out 
place, and that is the sky-ward window ; — no 
more looking back on your past, your doubts 
and your wanderings ; for like as if Noah had 
opened a down -looking window, or crevice, 
the waters of the flood would have come a 


IN THE MIST. 


245 


rushing in ; so if you look back you will find 
sin and unbelief a rushing in on you again, — 
all you have got to do, I say, is to look up 
through the sky - ward window, and then 
every Dove you let loose, — for I reckon them 
Doves mean prayers, — will come a flying back 
to you with an olive leaf of peace, comfort, 
and help. 

“ But laws, child, the sun is a setting, and 
my old woman will be a thinking I have 
tumbled over the cliff, like as not ; I am 
getting that slow, and stumbling like, of 
late. 

“ The Lord bless you, Miss Lisbeth.” — 

And without another word, old Captain 
Haight had gone. 

That night, before Lisbeth went to sleep, 
she took from between her Bible leaves, the 
bit of paper traced with her father’s writing, 
which Mrs. Blinn had given her long ago, and 
as she read it, she whispered softly : “ I can 
say the last lines now, — God has been so good 
to bring me to them,” and she repeated : 


246 


IN THE MIST. 


“ Shall we ever cease 

To smile, that through such hot and silly strife 
We came ? That doubts and fears could grow so rife ? 
That we could fail to see how Goal’s good hand 
Our anchorings and our driftings planned? ” 

And then, Lisbeth laid her cheek against 
the smooth paper ; against her father’s faded 
writing, as she murmured : “ Does my father 
know of to-day ; I think he does ; I think he 
does.” 

Did he?— 


XXXIV. 


S UMMER flew speedily that year to Eliza- 
beth Endicott. The violets, anemones, 
and wind-flowers out in the meadows, and on 
the grassy road-sides, had given place to 
daisies, golden-rod, and purple-asters ; almost 
before she knew, the time of blooming roses 
was over and gone. 

In July, her uncle had brought little Lu- 
cille for a visit, and the child tarried with Lis- 
beth till the first days of autumn. Hardly a 
child any longer, for five years had wafted 
Lucille across so wide a stretch of time, that 
Lisbeth found the “child-beauty” of her 
memory, standing on the threshold of maiden- 
hood. 

Lucille’s companionship was a delight to 
her ; and the days seemed all sunny when to- 
gether they wandered through the woodlands 
and the meadows, or climbed among the 

(247) 


248 IN THE mist. 

overhanging cliffe, that lined the sandy beach, 
which, when the tide was low, they would 
speed across to the reef at the harbor’s en- 
trance. — Sitting to rest on the high flat rock 
that capped the shelving stones below, till the 
water turned landward again. 

Only one shadow fell across Lisbeth’s 
pleasure all that time, and that came, because 
Lucille still retained a child’s heedlessness of 
her words and their import ; and she let fall 
from time to time in broken fragments, as she 
chatted of home, her mother and sisters, hints 
which told Lisbeth of a heartless man, and a 
loveless woman. — Lucille said nothing that 
was more defined than a picture in outline; 
in fact, not half as much as her uncle had 
more than once inferred, and yet Lisbeth 
knew from Lucille’s words, more than ever 
she had guessed from Mr. Endicott’s. 

She saw in them Sylvester Ingham, the 
man she had loved, portrayed as selfish and 
cynical ; saw the glimpse of him that she had 
that day in the park, was in reality a reflec- 
tion of his true self. — She saw, too, Ethel 


IN THE MIST. 


249 


grown hard and sarcastic, trying to hide a 
lonely heart behind a coldly-smiling face ; and 
the sight caused Lisbeth sincere sorrow, so 
full and entire now, was her forgiveness of 
Ethel and of Mr. Ingham. 

Lucille’s words brought back her own past 
to Lisbeth too, robed in the warm colors, 
that had grown somewhat dim as years had 
come and gone. — And after the child had left 
the Grange, and life settled down into its 
customary quiet routine, she pondered them. 

It was after that pondering, that Lisbeth 
made a discovery ; after it, that she found, 

“ The man she had loved. 

Not only from her present had withdrawn, 

But from her past, and there was no such man, 
There never had been.” — 

(( It was a dream,” she said, — “ all a dream 
of my own fancy. — I loved not him, — but, — 
what I thought him.” — And then, — as a 
sequel to that pondering, and that discovery, 
straightway into Lisbeth’s heart came a 
thought of Alexander Gordon ; her friend for 
so many years, — the man who had loved her, 


250 


IN THE MIST. 


longer than ever she guessed. — She thought 
of how noble, and true he was, — she thought, 
— and after her thoughts she knew. 

Meanwhile though Lisbeth had never so 
longed for it before, Mr. Gordon did not come 
for weeks. 

With the impatience of a child, she wanted 
to tell him how the mists of doubt had gone 
from her heart, — and, — perhaps, — something 
else. 

But, the late chrysanthemums, white and 
deep crimson; pink with glowing hearts of 
warmer hue, were nodding in the garden bor- 
ders, where all the other flowers had folded 
their leaves for their long winter’s sleep, be- 
fore he came. 

And then, it was but for a brief stay, from 
morning on to noontide, — at mid-day he had 
gone again. 

“ I have come to say farewell,” he told her, 
adding in a gentle tone : 

“On the morrow my march begins; with 
the dawn my regiment is off.” 

Lisbeth knew full well what those words 


IN THE MIST. 


251 


meant, for since the spring, more than one 
throb of the nation’s heart-beat of strife, had 
vibrated even in that quiet seaport town, 
and the farm lands beyond. More than one 
brave sailor lad, and stalwart farmer boy, had 
left their boats at anchor, their ploughs at 
rest, and gone forth to the war. 

In a brief six months, partings had become 
such a common thing, farewells so familiar! 

“Yes, I am going,” Mr. Gordon said, and 
he laid his hand on the insignia of his rank, 
the glowing badge of a Colonel, that marked 
the soldier’s coat he wore. 

As he spoke, he looked at Lisbeth with a 
pleading in his gaze ; a tenderness she never 
forgot. — 

But, though no longer a stranger to the 
feeling in her heart for him, though she had 
so longed to say to him : 

“ The mists have gone from my soul ; I am 
in the Light of God’s recognized Love for 
me ; ” she let him go without a word, — she 
walked with him down to the garden gate, — 
silent all the time. 


2 52 


IN THE MIST. 


At the gate he paused, and again he looked 
at her ; looked down into her uplifted eyes, — 
with a gaze that ever after Lisbeth “ wore in 
her soul.” 

Did he read her discovery there? — sure- 
ly, — surely, — though she kept it out of 
her speech, it must have looked from her 
eyes. 

All he said was : 

“ If the time ever comes, Lisbeth, — my 
Lisbeth, when you have aught to tell me, 
will you do it ? ” 

As she bowed her head in mute assent, he 
lifted it, and kissed her forehead. 

That was their parting. 

Then the gate closed between them, — he 
had gone. — 

Sharp and loud sounded the clatter of the 
horses’ hoofs on the hard road ; Alexander 
Gordon had gone : “ Gone to the cruel war ; ” 
over and over, Lisbeth said, as the day wore 
on ; and yet though she wept, in her heart 
the “ fresh burst of song, fresh joy revealing,” 
was smiling even amid her tears. 


IN THE MIST. 253 

“ I will write and tell him all,” she said ; 
“ next week, I will write.” 

But, in those war days, — next week ! — it 
was such an uncertain thing. — 


XXXV. 


S CARCE a summer and an autumn, — it 
seemed a brief time for that “ new son g,” 
to carol through Elizabeth Endicott’s heart 
its strains of gladness, — and yet, all its jubi- 
lant songs ended with the autumn, — hushed 
their gladsome notes and grew silent, only 
one short week after Mr. Gordon’s farewell 
to her. 

But only the songs were forever silenced ; 
the joy was a more abiding guest, for while its 
earthly measured happiness was of so narrow 
a span, there were green shoots of faith in her 
heart, that had sprung up into plants of hardy 
growth, since that early summer-time Sab- 
bath ; had laid hold of the broken tendrils, the 
drooping flower buds and blossoms of glad- 
ness ; laid hold, and tenderly supported them 
on their strong life-full branches and stems, till 
(254) 


IN THE MIST, 


255 


they lifted them up, above the sorrows of 
earth ; so far above, that earthly parting came 
to mean to Lisbeth, heavenly-meeting. 

But, not all at once, — submission, real true 
heart submission ; that is not mere bowing to 
the inevitable, is never wont to be a quickly 
upward climbing growth in human hearts, 
— not even when faith reaches out to sup- 
port it. 

But we anticipate : — 

Not till the very last day of the week fol- 
lowing Mr. Gordon’s departure, did Lisbeth 
seat herself to write the letter, that ever since 
she bade him good-bye, had been ringing in 
her heart like the note of a joy-bell. 

A woman’s reserve held her back, while 
she longed, with a child’s impatience, to pen 
the words. 

“ I will not send my message straightway it 
is asked,” she said to herself, with one of her 
old bright half-willful smiles ; “ I will not let 
it fly like some bird let loose from the prison 
cage, which has held it captive.” 

“Glad little bird,” she softly murmured, 


IN THE MIST. 


256 

“ that of its own sweet will flies straight and 
swift to its home-nest, in some safe enfolding 
branch of strong forest tree.” 

And softer grew the light in her eyes, the 
smile about her lips, as she whispered : 

“ My home-nest, — it is so sweet to know it 
is in his great strong heart of love.” — 

And all suddenly, memory brought back to 
her the vision of Mr. Gordon, as he had stood 
in her uncle’s library five years before, leaning 
on the mantel, and looking down at her. 

It was strange, but Lisbeth that week, 
never had one anxious or foreboding fear 
regarding his safety. She knew “ wars, and 
rumor of wars,” were taking tangible form in 
battle and carnage, from sunrise to sunset of 
almost every day. She knew down on those 
battle-fields, every freshly arrived regiment 
was straightway pressed into active service, 
yet her heart for the time, was as utterly ob- 
livious of the possibility of danger for him, as 
a cloudless day, that gives no hint of the 
morrow’s storm, — the storm, that is coming 
nearer and nearer all the time. 


IN THE MIST. 


257 

The smile was still on her face as she sat 
down before her writing-table, which stood 
near the open window in the library. 

It was one of those rare autumn days, that 
come like trailing clouds of glory, falling as 
benedictions from the departing summer, as 
the golden crimson and russet leaves had 
fallen from maple and oak. 

Late autumn, and yet so warm, the breeze 
that played about Lisbeth was soft and balmy 
as a summer-time breeze. — 

One of those still days, when far-away 
sounds seem near, she could hear the very 
words of the children at play under the cliff, 
could catch the very tune of the dull cadence 
of a fisherman’s song, and yet, his boat was 
far out in the bay. — Up from the village too, 
came floating a sound of mingled voices 
sometimes broken by shouts and cheers, and 
then suddenly growing subdued. 

If Lisbeth had listened, she might almost 
have caught in the “ subdued-times,” the 
sound of a sob, following the cheers, a sigh, 
so like a groan, close echoing the shouts. 

17 


258 


IN THE MIST. 


But, she paid no heed, as she wrote now 
one page and then another, with the smile 
still on her face. She paid no heed either, to 
nature’s sweet music, — though she loved it 
well. — The shadowy rustling sound of the 
leaves falling down from the old ash, the song 
of a late northward lingering bird, a mere 
chirp, and the faint undertone of cricket, an- 
swering cricket ; sounds, that were blended in, 
with that undefined hush of a still day, that 
makes one lift their hand and say, 

“ Hark! to the silence.” 

She paid no need to it all, we repeat. 

It was so glad a thing to her to write that 
letter, no wonder the smile lingered with its 
caressing brightness about her. — For she was 
telling Mr. Gordon, of what she knew would 
make him more glad even, than her acknowl- 
edged love for him, — she was telling, of the 
Light, that had been in her heart since the day, 
when the mists of unbelief had lifted. “ I do 
not think I am yet what you would call a 
Christian,” she wrote, “though I do trust 
Christ, for being a Christian, why, that would 


IN THE MIST 


259 


mean having a Christ-like soul, and if you 
were to ask Mrs. Blinn, she would tell you, I 
am the same willful, wayward Lisbeth. And 
if you were to look quite into my heart, you 
would see so much there, — I can not tell you 
how much, — that ought not to be ; I seem 
never to get one step beyond those words of 
Paul’s, ‘For the good that I would, I do not, 
but the evil which I would not, that I do.’ 

“ But, nevertheless, my old restless question- 
ing of the why of God’s dealing, my old re- 
bellion is gone ; I seemed to lose it out of my 
heart, when my eager desire to know what I 
did not believe, did not understand, gave place 
to the wonder and gladness of the much I do 
believe , — and yet, that much, — is after all held 
I think in just the feeling, that like one of 
those little children of old, that Christ took in 
His arms and blessed, so He holds me, and 
for Christ’s sake, God loves me; I am His 
child now, no longer a lonely orphan girl, but 
with a Father, a Heavenly Father to pity, 
guide, and help me rise above myself if I ask 
Him for Christ’s sake ; just as He has lifted me 


26 o 


IN THE MIST. 


out of my past unbelief, where doubts lay so 
thick, and will hold me from falling into them 
again, even if sometimes, as old Captain 
Haight says I find it an up-hill climb, through 
a foggy way. You remember the old story 
of how Michael Angelo wore ever on his 
forehead, fastened in his artist’s cap, a lighted 
candle, which always shone brightly on his 
work, and kept his own shadow from falling 
on it. — If I could always have thus, the Light 
of Christ’s felt presence, ever falling onward 
on my path, keeping the shadow of self be- 
hind, and out of sight, ah, what an easy climb 
it would be then I^but, self and wrong creep 
forward so, just as I think I have left them 
quite behind. 

“ So you see, I am not yet a Christian, — 
only I am trying, — I am trusting Christ. 

“ Shall I copy for you my song-creed ? 

" My heart is quiet with what I know, 

With what I hope, is gay. 

“ And where I can not set my faith. 

Unknowing or unwise, 


IN THE MIST : 


26l 


I say, ‘ If this be what He saith, 
Here hidden treasure lies.’ ” 


“ Here Thou hast brought me — able now' 
To kiss Thy garment’s hem, 

Entirely to Thy will to bow, 

And trust Thee even for them. 


u Lord Jesus Christ, I know not how — 
With this blue air, blue sea, 

This yellow sand, that grassy brow. 

All isolating me — 

“ My words to Thy heart should draw near, 
My thoughts be heard by Thee ; 

But He who made the ear must hear. 

Who made the eye, must see. 


* Thou mad'st the hand with which I write. 
That sun descending slow 
Through rosy gates, that purple light 
On waves that shoreward go, 


* Bowing their heads in golden spray, 
As if Thy foot were near ; 

I think I know Thee, Lord, to-day. 


262 


IN THE MIST. 


“ I know Thy Father — Thine and mine — 

Thus Thy great word doth go : 

If Thy great word the words combine, 

I will not say Not so. 

“ Lord, Thou hast much to make me yet, — 

A feeble infant still : 

Thy thoughts, Lord, in my bosom set, 

Fulfill me of Thy will." 

“ But my letter grows so long, how will you 
find time to read it, — will you carry it all day 
safe in your pocket ? and then, will you take it 
out and read by the light of a camp-fire, — or 
by the light of the stars, — which ? 

“ There is just one thing more I would fain 
tell you, but, — somehow, — I can not tell it in 
words. — Do you remember what you said to 
me in the spring-time, when the twilight was 
about us, and the violets and anemones were 
just coming into bloom. — Do you remember? 
— I want to whisper the . same words to you 
now. — Are you glad? Your own words re- 
peated, but in my voice now, mine, not 
yours.— Are you glad?” 

And Lisbeth looked up, with a deepened 


IN THE MIST. 


263 

glow on her face, a smile, that was tremu- 
lous, — looked up, as though to meet Alexan- 
der Gordon’s answering gaze, as though to 
hear his reply to her question : “ Are you 
glad ? ” 

“ He seems so near to me to-day,” she 
whispered, — and then for long she mused. 
Was he near? 

Who has not known in some intense hour 
of life, the nearness of a heart from which 
they are separated by widely counted earth- 
miles. Does it mean nothing? 

There was never another word written in 

that letter, it was left unfinished, 

never sent. 

Suddenly, with an impulse, that seemed a 
something beyond her control, Lisbeth rose 
and stood before the open window ; she had 
become conscious of a certain change, — what 
was it, something she missed, or some new 
sound she heard ? 

The sun was still shining, the sea waves 


264 


IN THE MIST. 


dancing and rippling beneath its golden 
beams. But the children at play, the fisher- 
man singing in his boat in the bay, they were 
silent, while up from the village, came still 
the dull mingling of voices, — ending, — she 
heard it at last, in something that sounded 
like a wail of grief, — she looked toward the 
cliff, looked just in time, to catch one glimpse 
of the gentle swaying of the nation’s flag, 
from the topmost point of the upright staff, 
that surmounted the rocky promontory, — one 
glimpse, for even as she looked, slowly, slowly 
it was lowered, — slowly, and at half-mast it 

halted, and then, sounded out over the 

sun-kissed sea-waves, over the fisher’s ham- 
let, and the broad farm lands, the notes of 
the church bell, and its echo-note, from the 
light-house tower, — so slowly, — so steadily it 
tolled, carrying with its every stroke, a heart- 
break into homes for miles and miles away. 

“ News from the war,” she exclaimed, and 
she speeded out of the open door, and down 
the garden walk, but at the gate she met Mrs 
Blinn returning from the village. 


IN THE MIST. 


265 

“Come home, child,' ” she said, “come 
home,” and though she was wont to be so 
yielding to Lisbeth’s will, she laid a firm re- 
straining touch on the girl’s shoulder, and led 
her within the home shelter again. 

Lisbeth yielded, whispering like a fright- 
ened child : 

“ Tell me, what is it all ? ” 

“There’s news of a battle, a glorious vic- 
tory they call it,” Mrs. Blinn replied, in sob- 
broken tones; “ but, child, among the foremost 
ranks that won that victory, were our boys,” 
— and by our boys, she meant, the brave 
fisher and farmer lads, who only three months 
before, had marched away from that quiet 
village, with waving flags, and beating drums. 
— “ Our boys, and there is sore mourning, 
child, sore mourning come to us, — ” and even 
as Mrs. Blinn spoke, the air vibrated with the 
sound of weeping women, and sobbing chil- 
dren, — weeping for the sons, the brothers, 

who would never come home again ! 

Never again. 

* 




266 


IN THE MIST : 


“ But, you have not told me all,” Lisbeth 
said half an hour later, as she lifted her gaze 
once more to Mrs. Blinn’s face. — “ There were 
other regiments in that battle ; tell me ? ” 
And then a sudden trembling shook Mrs. 
Blinn’s frame, like the wind, that shakes a 
reed by the road-side. 

“ Not all,” Lisbeth repeated, and she 
reached out her hand, — the little hand, that 
had flitted so lightly over the paper as she 
wrote only an hour before, — only an hour, — 
reached it out, and Mrs. Blinn laid in it the 
brief message, — one of the many, many mes- 
sages that had flashed woe that day, from 
South to North. 

So brief ; just the words : 

“ Mortally wounded ; Colonel Alexander 
Gordon ; by his request you are informed. 

“LIEUTENANT N. B. PECK.” 


That was all. 


XXXVI. 


S ILENCE, — utter silence in the room; 

broken only by Mrs. Blinn’s smothered 
sobs. 

Silence that lasted till the minutes counted 
full ten, and then, — Lisbeth spoke, — so 
calmly, so quietly, none said nay to her 
words : 

“ I am going to him,” she said. 

And she glanced toward Mrs. Blinn, and 
the faithful servants grouped about the open 
doorway. 

“ Going,” she repeated : “ Make ready to 
accompany me,” and her words were ad- 
dressed to Peter Skiff the steward, who had 
grown old in her father’s service, before she 
became mistress. 

And then Lisbeth gave one and another 

direction, not forgetting the minutest detail ; 

(267) 


* 


268 


IN THE MIST. 


with her own hands, she wrote form after 
form for telegrams, that were to precede her 
arrival from point to point of her way, and 
secure the permission for her onward journey, 
which she knew strict military rule would 
require. 

Without a word, she set aside by a mere 
shake of her head, Mrs. Blinn’s pleading, that 
her uncle should be sent for. 

She seemed no longer the half-frightened, 
trembling girl, who had met Mrs. Blinn at the 
gate ; the strength of her womanhood had so 
dawned within an hour. 

With such promptness every arrangement 
was made, that scarcely had the last rays of 
sunset faded from the western horizon, before 
Lisbeth was speeding on, — and on. 

She took no heed of the hours of that 
journey; sunlight and starlight, day and 
night, they seemed alike to her. 

Two thoughts only held sway in her heart. 
The one, to be in time, — in time for what ? — 
The other, Christ’s promise : “ My grace is 
sufficient, made perfect in weakness.” — She 


IN THE MIST. 269 

was so weak, — so weak, — though outwardly 
so calm and strong. 

It was nearing nightfall when at last her 
journey ended, — since noon it had been over 
a rough, deeply rutted, and jagged road, worn 
by the heavy artillery wagons, — and slow- 
going ambulances, freighted with their loads 
of wounded, dying men. 

It was a strange scene that stretched out 
before Lisbeth, as at last Peter Skiff opened 
the door of the closely-shut vehicle, in which 
she had sat silent for hours, with bowed head, 
and clasped hands. 

A broad plain stretching on and on, almost 
as far as she could see, till it faded into the 
dim outlying line of dense wood beyond. A 
field dotted from one boundary line to ano- 
ther, with long rows of tents, and across 
which swiftly-moving figures flitted to and 
fro; some in bright shining uniforms, that 
bespoke them new comers; others ia gar- 
ments travel and battle stained. 

Lisbeth held in her hand as she alighted, the 
bit of paper, the formal military order that 


270 


IN THE MIST. 


had been granted at their last stopping-place, 
and that was to win admittance for her, where 
admittance had been denied that day to many 
a pleading man and woman. 

She knew Alexander Gordon was still on 
the camp-ground, for distinctly she had heard 
the assurance of it in reply to Peter Skiff's 
inquiry, from an Orderly of an outlying guard 
only an hour before ; knew it full well, for she 
had heard, too, the added words in a rough 
soldier’s voice : 

“ Move him, if it’s Colonel Gordon you are 
a asking after, there will be no moving for 
him, till that ’er last move.” 

It was an elderly officer, a courtly man, with 
a warm, tender heart, to whom Lisbeth hand- 
ed the slip of “ pass ” paper, and yet he shook 
his head gravely as he read the words. 

“ I do not know,” he said, and he led her 
within the enclosure of his own tent that was 
just beyond the picket, and with a kindly word 
he left her alone, while she heard him send a 
hasty messenger for the attending surgeon, — • 


IN THE MIST. 


271 


and then, — a whispered consultation, after 
which both General and surgeon entered the 
tent together. Gently and kindly they told 
their decision, “Wait till morning.” 

“ Return now, Miss Endicott,” General N. 
said, “ to the barracks, only a mile distant ; 
they have been turned into a temporary hosr 
pital, and there you will find gentle women, 
who, like angels of mercy, are ministering to 
our poor wounded boys, and to-morrow one 
of those gentle sisters will accompany you, — 
to Colonel Gordon’s side, — wait till morning.” 

But Lisbeth did not seem to hear the words, 
for she repeated : 

“Take me to him now, — to-morrow will be 
too late ; take me now.” 

And for a moment her head was bowed 
low, and then, as swiftly lifted, while softly, — 
so softly, — but distinctly, she said : 

“ Take me now, — I, — I was to have been 
his wife.” 

And somehow, — those officers, used though 
they were to hard sights, to speaking per- 
emptory words of refusal, could not say nay 


2/2 


IN THE MIST, 


to the pleading of Lisbeth ; and so they led 
her, amid the deepening twilight, across the 
broken turf, where grass blades and flowers, 
lay crushed and heavy, beneath “the dew 
of blood,” across that field, strewn with the 
signs of the deadly conflict that had so re- 
cently rent the air with roar of cannon and 
groan of agony. — And her feet did not falter, 
nor her hand tremble ; firmly and steadily she 
walked by the old General’s side, walked on, 
* till she came to the very spot where Alexan- 
der Gordon lay, — on, till only the mere flap- 
ping of the tent’s canvas door separated 
them, — she was within a moment’s nearness 
to him. 

That night, for the second time in her life, 
Elizabeth Endicott watched by a silent form, 
—and as at that first watch, twilight had 
grown dim, and faded, gone out, and night’s 
darkness closed about her, so it did again. 

Not till the dreariest hour of a watcher’s 
vigil, the hour between midnight and dawn, 


IN THE MIST. 


273 


did Alexander Gordon give one sign of con- 
sciousness, — then he opened his eyes, as the 
surgeon bent low, and let fall on his face 
the flickering lamp light, — he stretched out 

his hand, and Lisbeth took it, — then the 

eyes closed again, — but the hand clasp did 
not loosen, — not then, — not then. 

Toward morning a sudden storm burst over 
the battle-field, heralded by wild wind, a gush 
of rain, flashing lightning, and rolling thunder, 
louder than any cannon’s roar. 

A storm of an hour, — for when the sun rose, 
the thunder echoed far off among the distant 
hills ; the dark clouds were cleft, as though a 
gateway opened for the rising sun. 

It was then, — just at sunrise, — that again 
Alexander Gordon opened his eyes, while in a 
voice low and faint, he whispered : 

“ See,- see, the sun-gate has opened, 

— I must go, — I must go.” 

“ His mind wanders,” gently the surgeon 
said. 

Did it wander? 

He spoke again. 

18 




IN THE MIST. 


274 

“ Lisbeth, — little Lisbeth, — child, I know, — 
I know it all,” — and such a wonderful smile 
shone on the dying man’s face as again he 
whispered : 

“ Lisbeth, — I am holding it, — Christ’s hand, 
— hold it too, — Lisbeth, — child. — ” 

Then the sun-gate had closed ; — and at that 
moment a low roll of thunder was heard again, 
— the clouds came back, — but even as they 
came, the morning sun flashed across their 
darkness, — and, over across that battle-field, 
there arched a rainbow in the sky. 


XXXVII. 


T7^ AR away from Lisbeth’s home by the sea, 
—far away on that southern plain, a 
grave was made that day. — There were hun- 
dreds and hundreds of other graves around it. 

They marked it by only a rough cross of 
wood, numbered and lettered. 

And there they left it. 


(275) 


XXXVIII. 


O NE week later there was a new comer 
among the band of women, that sister- 
hood of saintly workers, who went about 
softly ministering, — as only women can do, — 
to the dying, wounded men who crowded 
every ward of the barrack hospital at B. 

A new comer, a slender maiden, with a far- 
away look in her eyes, a holy calm in her face, 
and with such a power of soothing in her 
voice and touch, that groans ceased, pain 
eased, as sweet and low she whispered words 
of comfort, or with her hands, — her small, 
tender, child-like hands, loosened bandages, 
smoothed hard pillows, and stroked aching 
brows. 

She never made any distinction as to whom 
she served ; she never turned from the most 
revolting sight, or wildest cry of pain, or de- 
lirium. 

(276) 


IN THE MIST. 


2 77 

It made no difference whether the soldier 
boy she tended had fallen in rank of Northern 
or Southern army. To her they were all 
brothers, — for Christ’s sake. — 

At first her task of ministry had been chiefly 
among the brave fisher and farmer lads of the 
regiment from G., — but as time went by, 
their number grew less, for in that hospital 
there was never a day or night that some 
one did not “ move on.” — 

But as one and another departed they still 
called that gentle lady nurse, “ Our Lily- 
maiden.” 

And she kept that name for long, for Eliza- 
beth Endicott did not leave the hospital serv- 
ice till months numbered a year. 

But at last she returned home, not to cease 
her ministries of love ; for she found work 
awaiting her there too, tender, kindly work, 
that she did so faithfully, that the fisher-folk 
down in the hamlet came at last to call her, 
“ our angel of the cliff ; ” while among the 
dwellers of the farm lands, and the village, 
she was still, “ Miss Lisbeth,” only in soft- 


278 IN THE mist. 

ened voices they added, “ our saint Elizabeth 
now." 

“ She always was a child of as many names, 
as dearnesses,” Mrs. Blinn said. 

And yet, there were those, who as Lisbeth 
entered the village church after that long 
absence, gazed at her, saying in low tones to 
one another : 

“ She can not have felt it as we thought 
she would ; see how calm her face is, peaceful 
as the face of a child, — and after all she has 
been through ! ” 

While there were others who said, “ The 
girl’s heart is broken.” 

Among these latter, the village Doctor, and 
Judge and Mrs. Hancock. 

And still others said as did old Captain 
Haight : 

“ The child has seen the Lord, — only they 
who have seen Him, I say, bear that look on 
the face.” And, — in a certain way they all 
spoke the truth. 

On a morning not long following Lisbeth’s 
return, she took into her hands again her 


IN THE MIST. 


279 


palette and brushes, and when she laid them 
aside, she left on a canvas, traced in letters, 
that every one held a rainbow color, the words : 

“ Blessed be the God of all comfort, who 
comforteth us in all our tribulation, that we 
may be able to comfort them which are in 
any trouble, by the comfort wherewith we 
ourselves are comforted of God.”' 

Later on, Lisbeth fastened that bit of can- 
vas above the quaint cabinet, — her mother’s 
treasure, — that still stood where sunbeams 
played about it, and on which there lay now, 
— only a little Bible, — bullet pierced, and torn. 

A little Bible, against which night after 
night, “ Lisbeth, our angel of the cliff, — saint 
Elizabeth,” as they called her, — laid her cheek 
and sobbed aloud, for, 

“ As gold is tried by fire, 

So a heart must be tried by pain,” 

before ever it learns to say, — ^ Not my will, 
but Thine, O God.’/ 

Before ever it knows the calm Elizabeth 
Endicott came to know. 



AFTERMATH 


“ Oh, her heart can see, her heart can see ! 
And its sight is strong, and swift and free. 
Never the ken of mortal eye 
Could pierce so deep and far and high 
As the eager vision of hearts that dwell 
In the lofty, sunlit citadel 
Of Faith that overcomes the world, ' 

With banners of Hope and Joy unfurled, 
Garrisoned with God’s perfect Peace, 
Ringing with paeans that never cease, 
Flooded with splendor bright and broad. 
The glorious light of the Love of God. 

“ Her heart can see ! her heart can see 
Beyond the glooms and the mystery, 
Glimpses of glory, not far away, 

Nearing and brightening day by day ; 
Golden crystal and emerald bow, 

Lustre of pearl and sapphire glow, 
Sparkling river and healing tree, 

Ever green palms of victory, 

Harp and crown and raiment white. 

Holy and beautiful dwellers in light ; 

A throne, and One thereon, whose Face 
Is the glory of that glorious place/' 

(282) 


I. 


Fifteen years since Elizabeth Endicott’s 
twenty-third birthday, and the sunshine falls 
aslant her room now as then. 

A maiden’s room still, for Elizabeth Endi- 
cott will never be wife or mother. 

Down to old age, she will hearken alone, 
as in her youth-time, to the whispering leaves 
of the ash, and the murmur of the sea-waves 
on the shore. 

Is she happy? 

“ God gives us happiness through ourselves ; 
we are made happy by what we are , not by 
what we have.” 


II. 

As in the dim and tender years of her 
childhood, the glad years of early youth, the 
shadowed years of later maidenhood, nature 

(283) . 


284 * 


IN THE MIST. 


had encompassed Elizabeth Endicott with 
its symbols of mystery, — life with its problem 
of permitted wrong and permitted suffering ; 
so with the slow progress of the years, there 
had come to her 

“ The feeling which is evidence 
That very near about us lies 
The realm of spiritual mysteries. 

*••••••• 

The mystery dimly understood, 

That love of God is love of good, 

And, chiefly, its divinest trace 
In Him of Nazareth’s holy face ; 

- That to be saved is only this — 

Salvation from our selfishness, 

From more than elemental fire. 

The soul’s unsanctified desire, 

From sin itself, and not the pain 
That warns us of its chafing chain ; 

That worship’s deeper meaning lies 
In mercy, and not sacrifice, 

Not proud humilities of sense 
And posturing of penitence, 

But love’s unforced obedience ; 

That Book and Church and Day are given 
For man, not God — for earth, not heaven — 


IN THE MIST. 


285 


The blessed means to holiest ends, 

Not masters, but benignant friends ; 

That the dear Christ dwells not afar, 

The king of some remoter star. 

Listening, at times, with flattered ear, 

To homage wrung from selfish fear. 

But here, amidst the poor and blind. 

The bound and suffering of our kind. 

In works we do, in prayers we pray, 

Life of our life, He lives to-day.” 

Is she happy ? — 

“We are made to be happy, but we are 
made also to find that happiness, in the love 
of God, and of our fellows.” 


III. 

ONLY a stone’s throw from Elizabeth Endi- 
cott’s home door, the gray rocks, the old cliff, 
still cast their shadow across the. sea waves 
when the sun is westering, — and when the 
day’s work is done, and the light begins to 
grow dim, sometimes through the summer- 
clad garden walks, she passes, — seeking her 


286 


IN THE MIST. 


old retreat, the crevice in the rock. — And as 
she goes, she sings, as was her wont of old. 

A song born out of her Past, and the 

children at play in the meadows, and down 
on the sea-beach, pause to listen. The 
youths and the maidens, whisper softly, 
“ List,” — while men and women, grown old 
and weary with Life’s journey, smile at one 
another, as they hearken, saying in low tones, 
“ It is Miss Lisbeth, singing of the mist, 
though she is in the sunshine.” 

And over the sea waves, — the meadow 
flowers and grass-blades, the song floats low 
and sweet : 

THE SONG OF THE MIST. 

4 

“ When the mists have rolled in splendor 
From the beauty of the hills, 

And the sunshine, warm and tender, 

Falls in splendor on the rills, 

We may read love’s shining letter 
In the rainbow of the spray ; 

We shall know each other better 
When the mists have cleared away. 

We shall know as we are known, 

Never more to walk alone, 


IN THE MIST. 


287 


In the dawning of the morning, 

When the mists have cleared away. 

“ When the mists have risen above us, 

As our Father knows His own, 

Face to face with those that love us, 

We shall know as we are known ; 

Low beyond the orient meadows 
Floats the golden fringe of day ; 

Heart to heart we hide the shadows 
Till the mists have cleared away, 

We shall know as we are known, - 
Never more to walk alone, 

When the day of light is dawning 
And the mists have cleared away.” 

Is she happy ? — 

“ Behold, we count them happy which en- 
dure, — ye have heard of the patience of Job ; 
and have seen the end of the Lord ; that the 
Lord is very pitiful, and of tender mercy/' 

IV. 

“ Good is a better word than happiness in this world. 

In the world to come, they will be synonymous.” 




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